


The Dagger's Blade

by kuro



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011), The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, M/M, Pain, Slavery, Trust Issues, or rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-30 04:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro/pseuds/kuro
Summary: What if Esca had never become a gladiator, but instead had chosen a different path? And what if Marcus had not injured his leg, but his arm?No matter the changes to their story, one thing is certain: their destinies are inescapably intertwined.





	1. The Murder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missbecky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/gifts).



> A huge thank you to missbecky, without whom the story never would have happened in the first place! 
> 
> The story is almost finished already, with a total of 12 chapters that I plan to post as I .

_ Romans. Their sheer arrogance would be their downfall. They treated people, slaves, worse than they did their dogs. And when they were not tormenting them, they acted as if the slaves were not there at all, as if they were just another piece of furniture in the room.  _

_ But being overlooked and ignored was not so terrible, Esca thought. He was waiting, biding his time. When the right moment finally came, he would teach the Romans a lesson in humility.  _

* * *

 

Esca stood there, unmoving. The guards eyed him with suspicion, but they kept their distance. Esca felt a quiet, grim sense of satisfaction at seeing the unsettled expressions on their faces. It was good, he thought. That was what they should be doing; fearing him.

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. 

Time dragged on, and Esca waited. 

Finally, the silence was broken. Several voices could be heard from the entrance of the house, talking over each other, some of them raised in anger. That, Esca understood without being close enough to hear the meaning of the words that were spoken. 

Then, one sharp command made all the other voices fall silent. Instead, Esca could hear footsteps coming closer, along the hallway, towards the room he was waiting in. 

He tamped down a rising feeling of apprehension and steeled himself for what was to come. He had done what he had done, and there was little reason to try and flee now. It was foolish to regret; he was living on borrowed time, anyhow. He had failed to die honourably, and now he had to take what he got.

Five Romans entered the room. The first one made a repulsed noise at the sight that greeted him, and the following two looked discomforted and did not dare to step very far into the room, staying close to the door. The last two, however, looked at the scene with no fear in their eyes. Esca considered at them; the first man was old, weighed down by his many years, while the second one was still young and strong. Yet both of them had the bearing of a Roman soldier. Esca had seen enough of them to know. For once, however, their presence did not fill him with anger and hatred; they, at least, were predictable. 

“You should have slain him on the spot!” The first man suddenly exclaimed, turning towards the guards. He was a little white in the face, but seemed to be recovering quickly. “He deserves nothing else!”

The guards shifted nervously, but not only because they were embarrassed to be chided by the Roman. They were afraid of Esca, and they were right to be. If they had tried anything, Esca would have gutted them just like the dead man lying at his feet. He was faster than them, and they knew it. That fool of a Roman, however, clearly did not. For a short moment, Esca felt sorely tempted to give him a taste. 

“Placidus,” the older soldier said, his voice carrying a gentling tone. “I think you are getting a little ahead of yourself. I know this is very much out of the ordinary, but acting rashly would be foolish right now.”

“Foolish?” the fool named Placidus spat. “He murdered his master! Butchered by his own property! That slave has earned nothing but death! If his own master can’t judge him, it is up to us to do so!”

The younger soldier suddenly stepped forward. Esca had been watching the frothing Placidus and let himself be distracted for one moment, so he was a little too slow to respond. By then, the soldier had twisted the knife out of Esca’s hand, grabbed him, and pulled the loose neckline of his tunic off his shoulder. 

Esca had thought them well-hidden, but now they were exposed for all to see: a painful and elaborate pattern of bruises, cuts, and gashes, covering the expansion of his back all the way down to his legs. He snarled and tried to twist out of the soldier’s grip, but he was caught like a rabbit in a sling. The soldier’s massive hand would not budge at all. 

“Is that how you treat your property?” the soldier asked coolly. 

Esca would have gladly ripped his face off, if he could only reach. 

“A master can treat his property however he wants, Aquila,” Placidus retorted, even though Esca could see that he did not dare to look at Esca’s mutilated back all too closely. 

“Even the tamest dog will bite if all his master’s hand does is hurt him,” the soldier, Aquila, countered.

Placidus did not respond to that verbally, but the glare he sent Aquila was positively venomous. 

“Marcus,” the older soldier interjected. “Placidus. We are not here to fight. I see your point, Placidus, but since this slave was Aurelius’ possession, it would have been his place to judge, not ours. Unfortunately, Aurelius is dead.”

“Aurelius would have-” Placidus started, but the old man silenced him with a wave of his hand. 

“Aurelius is dead, and therefore he cannot speak judgement,” he said. “And since Aurelius has no surviving family, after the death of his wife five years ago, his estate and the slaves have no rightful owner and will have to be sold. So the responsibility will fall on the next owner.”

There was a beat of silence when everyone in the room glanced uneasily towards Esca, who was still futilely struggling in Aquila’s grip. 

“No one in their right mind would spend his coin on _ that _ ,” Placidus eventually said, voicing what the rest of them must have been thinking. 

“I will.”

Everyone’s eyes wandered the short distance from Esca to Aquila. Even Esca himself stopped struggling and stared up at the man in shock.

“Marcus-”

“I said I will, uncle,” Aquila gritted out, his jaw set in determination. “Find someone to transfer ownership.”

* * *

 

Had it not been Esca’s life that they played with, the following scenes might have been amusing. The older Aquila, apparently the uncle of the younger one, had clearly not expected his own nephew to involve himself into the affair this way. Neither had he seemed to expect his nephew’s extraordinary stubbornness. He kept appealing to him, but instead of yielding, the younger Aquila insisted on his decision with a mulish expression on his face, not willing to budge even a little.

In the end, his uncle gave in and called for his own body slave to run and do as his nephew demanded.

Esca was caught in a strange dream-state. He did not quite understand what was happening to him, and he watched the events in front of his eyes unfold as if he was not truly there. He had planned to die. That had been his plan, his only option. Instead he was being sold, again, to another master. He was condemned to continue his wretched existence as a slave. 

He didn’t remember someone binding his arms, but one moment, he was standing in the middle of that cursed, bloodied room, and then, the midday sun was suddenly blinding his eyes as he was dragged along mostly empty streets. 

Dragged towards a new “home,” a new place of never-ending humiliation.


	2. In Chains

“Master, what should we do?” Esca could hear Stephanos, the elder Aquila’s body slave, ask from beyond the door frame. “We cannot keep him bound like that all the time. What was Marcus thinking?”

“If only I knew,” the elder Aquila’s answer came with a sigh. “He has always been too much like his father - a good boy, but too serious and with a stubborn streak. I do not know what to do with him.”

Both of them were silent for a moment.

“We will have to wait and see,” Uncle Aquila finally said, shuffling away from the room Esca had been brought to. “In that, too, he is like his father; he will see through to the end what he has started. The slave is in his hands now.”

That was all too true, Esca thought bitterly. Whatever fate Aquila eventually decided on, it was Esca’s duty to accept it.

If only he could have died then and there. At least he would have died with the fresh blood of a Roman pig on his hands. He surely had squealed like one when Esca had cut him. Maybe that would have been enough to restore his honour in the eyes of his ancestors.

Maybe.

For the second time, he had failed to die an honourable death.

* * *

Bound as he was, Esca had been discarded in a corner of the Roman villa that he had been brought to by Aquila, and then promptly ignored for a while. Only when he had grown entirely weary of waiting and fretting over his fate, Aquila finally reappeared.

Esca lifted his chin and glared at Aquila defiantly; he would not grovel before his new owner. Aquila stared back at him, but Esca could not read his expression. What would he know about Romans and how their minds worked, anyway? There was nothing but cruelty and arrogance there; their minds always busy devising new and creative ways to torture people. How to expertly strip them of any notion of pride and identity that they still possessed. It was nothing at all that Esca cared to know.

“Do you need to go to the toilet?” Aquila asked.

Esca boggled at the question. That was the first thing his master chose to say to him?

“Do you?” Aquila asked again.

“...yes,” Esca pressed out. As much as he was loathe to admit it, his bodily functions cared little about Esca’s current state. On the contrary, the prolonged sitting had made it difficult to ignore the issue, steadily growing more pressing.

“Come, then,” Aquila said, loosening the strap that prevented Esca from moving around, but leaving the rope that tied his hands on his back safely in place.

Esca hesitated for a moment, but then he let himself be dragged away. He was already humiliated enough. He did not want to have to relieve himself in a corner like a dog.

“Will you behave if I loosen the bonds?” Aquila asked once they had reached the latrine. He glanced over at Esca, then sighed.

Did he really expect Esca to give him an honest answer? Of course the answer would be yes, whether it was the truth or a lie. Esca felt tempted to say no just to see what the reaction would be, but instead, he remained silent and unmoving.

Aquila sighed again, and the next thing that Esca knew was that the rope around his wrists loosened.

Shocked, he looked back over his shoulder, but Aquila only gave him a light shrug.

Questions threatened to spill from Esca’s lips, accusations about the level of Aquila’s careless assumption and arrogance. Did he think he could always hold Esca in check, that Aquila was strong enough not to warrant worry? Esca only needed to be faster once.

In the end, he gave in to his more pressing needs and turned away from Aquila as much as he could. Shame coursed through his body, hot and sharp. There was something far too intrusive about being watched as he relieved himself. In his heart, he cursed his cruel fate, the humiliation that we was forced to endure.

When Esca turned back around, he caught Aquila regarding him with a considering expression. The look made him alert, and he caught himself broadening his stance and straightening his spine in preparation of what was to come.

“You need to get cleaned up,” Aquila announced. “Sassticca will pitch a fit if she sees you walking around blood-soaked like that.”

Esca did not care, and he did not want to get cleaned up. He did not want to be stared at again.

Or worse, touched.

“Come,” Aquila commanded.

_No_ , something inside Esca whispered.

His legs worked against his will, following Aquila’s command.

It took Esca a while to realise that Aquila had never refastened the bonds.

* * *

Getting Esca cleaned up turned into a battle of wills. It was uncomfortable enough to have someone watch his every movement, but when Aquila insisted on treating the injuries on his back, Esca baulked. If it was so important to Aquila, Esca would get cleaned up. He would even wear new clothes. But no one was touching his back.

Esca was dimly aware that his refusal might just end in more lashings and beatings, more bruises littering his back, but he would much rather be beaten than be touched by a Roman. The thought alone made his skin crawl, made him defensive and aggressive like a cornered wolf.

“Do you want me to get Sassticca?” Aquila asked after Esca had apparently successfully glared him into submission. “She’s more gentle and skilled with wounds that I could ever hope to be.”

Did he think Esca was worried that Aquila might _hurt_ him?

“You should have just let me die,” Esca spat.

Esca’s irritation was met with silence, and again Aquila looked at him with that irritating, considering gaze.

“You were ready to die?” Aquila eventually asked.

“I am no fool,” Esca hissed. “I know the consequences of my actions.”

“But the man I saw today, it was not a man who wanted to die,” Aquila replied slowly. “It was a man who desperately wanted to live.”

Esca froze in shock. That was-

“What value does a life have, lived serving you Roman dogs?” he said coldly.

He had gone too far, he knew that, but he had already decided to meet his fate today.

Yet, instead of beating him for his insolence, Aquila only shook his head. “Not all servitude is shameful. And it is no dishonour to be compared to a dog. They are loyal and know no deceit in their hearts.”

Esca considered strangling the man then and there. He was taller and looked to be much stronger than Esca, but Esca was fast, and it had been many a man’s undoing to underestimate him because of his frame was small. He had at least a chance.

And if he succeeded, they would definitely kill him this time. No one would buy him a second time.

“Put on your tunic and hold your arms behind your back,” Aquila commanded.

Perhaps Aquila was not quite as mad as Esca had let himself being led to believe.

After several beats of silence, Esca complied with the order.

He was bound, once more.


	3. The Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi to my favourite character of this story! :D

Aquila led Esca back to his corner and left him there. He did not say where he went or what he intended to do, but Esca was left on his own until the sun was already setting. Only once a woman, who introduced herself as Sassticca, the cook in the Aquila household, brought him some food. It was no feast, but it was infinitely better than the scraps Aurelius had usually deigned to serve him, so he had to keep himself from ravenously devouring the food the moment it came within reach. The fact that his hands were still tightly bound certainly helped. As it was, he had to reluctantly let himself be fed, forcing himself to chew slowly and deliberately, trying to blend out the shamefulness of being spoon-fed as a toddler would.

The cook was quiet for most of Esca’s meal, patiently feeding him, even though Esca noticed that she did not dare to come too close to him. At some point, however, she cleared her throat and began to speak.

“You shouldn’t make things so hard for the young master,” she said. “He is a good boy.”

 _He is hardly a boy_ , Esca thought. _That, and a Roman._

“I did not ask him to interfere,” Esca replied gruffly.

Sassticca glanced at him with a strange look before she turned back to the food bowl.

“And yet you are here,” she simply said.

Esca remained silent. Did she expect him to be grateful that a Roman had taken pity on him, for whatever reason, and spared his life? He had not wanted any of this. He had wanted to be free of these cursed Romans, once and for all.

He had wanted to die with his family.

* * *

When Aquila returned, it was with an enormous hound at his heels. The pointed snout and the intelligent eyes reminded Esca of a wolf rather than of one of those breeds the Romans usually preferred as guard dogs, but the dog was clearly domesticated, loyally following at his master’s heel. Like Esca was supposed to.

Aquila said nothing when he untied Esca once more, but Esca understood the message well: Try to flee or fight, and the dog will tear you to pieces. For one moment, he wondered if he would care.

He was allowed to use the latrines once more, and this time, Aquila kept his distance, knowing that his dog would take over the duty of watching Esca.

Esca did not have it in his heart to feel grateful.

Afterwards, Aquila led him through the house towards a room that must be Aquila’s bedroom. But when he hesitated in front of the entrance, Aquila’s dog poked him in the back of his leg, as if trying to nudge him forwards. Left with no other choice, Esca followed after Aquila and entered the room.

It was an almost depressingly spartan room. The necessary furniture was there: a bed, a desk with a chair in front of it, chests for storing clothes and other belongings. Otherwise, the room was almost completely empty of any kind of decoration, of all the frivolous things that Romans usually liked to collect. The only decorative element was a shrine, dedicated to what must be Mithras, one of these strange gods that the Romans liked to worship and then be secretive about, jealously guarding their mysteries. The shrine showed obvious signs of wear and tear, but it was carefully maintained, and had been repaired in places, Esca noticed.

Devoted to his god, but little more. Esca wondered what that said about his his new owner.

“You will sleep here, for now,” Aquila spoke, taking a seat at his desk. “Stephanos will bring you a pallet to sleep on.”

Esca remained quiet. In his stead, the dog whined.

“Spoude, you will stay with Esca,” Aquila said, and the dog obediently sat down at Esca’s feet. Then Aquila procured a scroll, as if he had not just given order to a slave who had murdered his last owner, and turned away from Esca to start reading.

Esca was left on his own to help a heavily breathing Stephanos place his new sleeping pallet next to the door. He did ask Stephanos if there were any further duties expected of him, but Stephanos quickly shook his head and retreated from the room.

So Esca stood there, in the room of his new master, and watched him read in the dim light of a lamp until Aquila decided that it was time to go to bed.

Esca lay down onto his pallet and watched Aquila blow out the light. He lay there as he listened to his master bed himself across the room. He listened to his breathing, to the creaking of the bed frame, the shifting of the covers.

What he had not expected was the sudden clicking and shuffling from a very different direction, and before he knew it, Spoude, the giant wolf-dog, had taken possession of Esca’s pallet as well as his upper body. She poked his hand with her wet snout until he finally lifted it and scratched the beast.

It was just as well, Esca thought. He’d rather share his bed with the dog.

* * *

The dog was an excellent blanket, both warm and soft, so that Esca was eventually lured into a much deeper sleep than he usually allowed himself. He woke in the morning with a small start, the wounds on his back protesting the weight of the dog. He had lain on his back all night, and the pressure on the wounds that were not healed yet had aggravated them.

He gave Spoude a gentle push, and she moved to the side easily enough. For a few moments, Esca simply laid there, breathing slowly and taking in the pain on his back. It was sharp, and the muscles were hard and knotted, but there was also the promise of healing. He turned his head to look at the giant dog lying next to him.

He was not to die yet. He did not understand the will of the gods, but against all expectation, he had lived. What did they still have in store for him, to let him live again and again?

Esca sighed and banned the thought from his mind. It was no use wondering. There was no answer forthcoming.

Ignoring the pain in his back, Esca rose quietly from his pallet, so as not to disturb his master’s sleep, and made his way to the kitchen. Spoude followed him willingly enough, and did not bark at him.

Sassticca was busy in the kitchen, but she greeted Esca and gave him food, and eventually also relented to Spoude’s whining and set a large bowl in front of her.

“I have told Marcus that the dog does not belong in the kitchen,” she griped. “Next thing, she will be caught with her nose in one of the storage vessels, or one of my cooking pots.”

“I do not think she would let herself be caught,” Esca replied without thinking.

Sassticca huffed in offense. “The young master said the same. I do not see why the thought amuses you boys so.”

Esca froze at her words, but Sassticca did not see it, working at the hearth, and chattered on. “You are to bring the young master his food. Do make sure he eats it. And do not listen when he says he is not hungry.”

Esca carried the food out of the kitchen without further comment, but privately, he wondered. If there was one thing that he had learned about Romans, it was that they loved excess more than anything else. Be it food or drink, men or women, they took pleasure in having too much of everything. A Roman who did not indulge in gluttony? That was unheard of, indeed.

He returned to the bedroom and found Aquila sitting at his desk, bent over the same text he had been reading the night before.

Aquila looked up when Esca and Spoude entered the room, and sighed when he caught sight of the food that Esca was carrying.

“I am not hungry.”

Esca set his burden down in front of Aquila.

“Everyone has to eat,” he replied, careful not to look at his master.

“And yet here I am, not eating,” Aquila said, and for the first time, the seemingly eternal calm in his voice had vanished. Instead, it was replaced by a strange mixture of frustration, anger, and sulkiness that almost brought a smile to Esca’s lips. Or perhaps, rather, a sneer.

“And yet here I am, serving you food,” he replied, his voice kept carefully neutral.

Silence stretched between the two of them, neither of them willing to give in.

Then, finally, Aquila reached out and took some bread, sullenly stuffing it into his mouth with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His eyes were trained on Esca, however, his expression as unreadable as it had been before.

“I owe you a debt of honour, _domine_ ,” Esca said. “I will serve you.”

Aquila accepted the words without comment and kept chewing on his bread, but Esca was sure that he had understood what had remained unsaid.

_I will serve you, but it will be on my terms._

Aquila knew, after all, what had happened to Esca’s last owner.


	4. Hunting

It was no surprise to Esca that the relationship between him and his new master turned into a battle of wills more often than not. It was not that Esca did not know his place, however; he obeyed the commands of Stephanos and Sassticca, and even those of the elder Aquila, when Esca was asked to serve him. He fulfilled his duties in the stables and around the house. He had sworn to serve Aquila, and he would not be accused of shirking his duties.

Yet, he never let Aquila forget that he was not a submissive and complacent slave, as Rome would have him be. When Aquila refused his meals, Esca would strong-arm him into eating. And while he would ultimately follow his master’s orders, Esca never hid his distaste when his master was being a Roman fool.

Esca also learned quickly that his master did not have many friends. Much of his time was spent on his own, with Esca and Spoude as his shadows whenever Esca was not busy with his duties around the house.

It did not take Esca long to understand that Aquila was a deeply unhappy man. Never a particularly chatty man, he tended to fall into dark moods where he would even reject Esca’s quiet presence. Often, Esca was sent away, on errands or to help others.

Aquila had bought him on a whim, Esca knew, and did not know what to do with him, a slave. He was stubborn to a fault, and yet he was strangely accepting of Esca’s continued insubordination, and never punished him for it. Rarely did he give commands, and when he did, they were usually orders such as “The horses need to be tended to,” or “Stephanos needs help with such and such task.” He was so unlike Aurelius, Esca sometimes doubted his own sanity. If the wounds on his back were not still healing, he would think himself caught in a strange dream.

Other than perhaps his uncle, Esca was the one who was closest to Aquila, and even he was kept at a certain distance, never mind that Esca slept in the same room as him every night.

Esca did not know why he had not been moved to the slaves’ quarters yet, even after he had given Aquila his word that he would serve him. He certainly held no ill will towards any of the slaves. And yet, instead of being removed, his pallet stayed in Aquila’s room, and Spoude stayed with Esca. Over time, Spoude had become his companion rather than his guard, and while he would never speak of it willingly, it was her affections that made his fate more bearable.

Esca did not like to think of it, but his master had spoken the truth when he had said that dogs knew no deception in their hearts.

“What a poor dog I make, Spoude,” Esca had told her once, slipping into British as had become his habit around the dog. Spoude had smiled a wolfish smile and licked his hand. Esca did not have it in him to deny her a smile of his own. “But you still like me. I wished it was this simple for me.”

As much as Spoude liked Esca, Aquila was her master, and also the center of her affections. Aquila spoiled her greatly and took her out for hunting trips often. That was what she really was, Esca had learned: not a guard dog for the house, but a hunting dog.

“Too much wolf in her,” Uncle Aquila had said once, looking at the dog crunching on a large bone. “She is no good for guard duty, but give her a trail to follow and she will bring home a kill.”

And it was true; not once did Aquila return from a hunting trip empty-handed when he took Spoude with him.

Those were the rare times when Aquila seemed happy and without care, and when he willingly and enthusiastically left the house, so no one in the household ever complained when he went hunting often.

* * *

One evening, Esca and Aquila were preparing for the night when Aquila suddenly spoke.

“Come with me.”

Esca looked up, slightly unsettled. Go where? He was almost done with his duties and ready to sleep.

“Come with me on the hunt tomorrow,” Aquila explained when he saw that Esca did not understand.

“If you wish so, _domine_ ,” Esca replied meekly. He did not want to show his confusion at the sudden change. He had assumed that Aquila only ever went hunting on his own. Why would he change his mind?

Aquila, Esca noted with quiet satisfaction, looked discontented about the meek nature of his answer. “I want you to come if _you_ wish to do so,” he insisted.

“I will come with you, _domine_ ,” Esca answered, deliberately not voicing what he did or did not want to do. Aquila was speaking to his slave. He should not forget that what Esca wanted had become irrelevant a long time ago.

“Fine,” Aquila said, a hint of frustration in his voice. “We will leave early. Make sure that the horses are ready. I will give you some weapons to use.”

Esca nodded in agreement and turned away. He did not ask if Aquila trusted Esca with a weapon.

He did not know what he would do if the answer was yes.

* * *

The hunt was nothing spectacular, nothing that Esca had not taken part in countless times before, if one disregarded the simple fact that Aquila did, indeed, trust Esca with spear and blade, and pressed them into Esca's hands with no hesitation at all. Aquila was a skilled hunter, and Esca did not find it hard to adjust to working with him. It had been so long since Esca had been allowed to ride, had been able to experience the thrill of the hunt, that for a few moments, he was able to forget his wretched life. Here, racing through grass and forest on the back of his horse, he was able to enjoy the freedom of the wind in his hair and the thunder of hooves on the ground.

They succeeded in bringing down a large deer that they would bring Sassticca to prepare a sumptuous meal with. After that, they rode until they came across a small river, where they caught a few lazy fish to grill over a fire.

Aquila seemed strangely content, and for once, he ate without Esca having to prompt him to do so first. After, they sat in the grass and enjoyed the rays of sunshine finding their way down to them, lazy and sated from a good hunt and fresh food. It might have been Esca’s own feeling of elation at being able to roam the forests freely after such a long time confined in a house that prompted him to speak more freely than he would otherwise.

“You are a soldier, are you not?” he asked Aquila. “Why are you here with your uncle, and not with your legion?”

Aquila’s contented expression vanished so quickly, it was as if someone had suddenly doused him with a bucket of cold water. He turned his face away, silently staring into the distance for a long time. Esca had already started to think that there would be no answer forthcoming, when Aquila finally broke his silence.

“I used to be a centurio. But I am not any longer.”

“Why?” Esca asked. He should not care about the reasons; Marcus was a soldier no more. A loss to Rome it would be, perhaps. But not a loss for Esca’s people. The reasons did not matter.

And yet, the pained expression on Aquila’s face made Esca want to know.

“I- I got injured in battle,” Aquila explained. Slowly, he released his hands that he had balled into fists. He turned his left arm towards Esca and showed him a long, fine white scar that ran along the outer side.

Rare was the soldier that did not get injured in battle, and scars were a companion to all of them. Esca thought Aquila lucky, because the scar was straight and clean, not swollen or infected like many of the badly healed battle wounds that he had seen before. He had seen wounds bad enough that the meat rotted right off the bone, and the only saving grace had been to remove the limb completely.

Aquila grinned at him without humour.

“I does not look like a true warrior’s scar, does it?” he asked, and his mouth twisted bitterly. “And yet it is the source of my failure. The wound was treated properly, and it healed nicely. But now, there is a tremor in my arm that I cannot control; it comes without warning. I can still hold my own against a man in battle, but I cannot be a soldier any longer. A soldier who cannot hold his shield steady? That is no soldier.”

What fools Romans were, Esca thought. But he knew how they won their battles - through numbers and careful strategy. If there was one weakness in the battle line, it posed a danger to all of them. No soldier would stand behind the shield of a man whose hand would waver. It was a death sentence.

If Aquila had been Brigantes, however… What a foolish notion, Esca chided himself. Aquila was Roman, and the Brigantes as he knew them were no more.

Aquila called Soude to him and stood to prepare his horse for departure. Esca hurried to douse the remains of the fire and followed him.

They rode back to the Aquila residence in silence. Neither Aquila’s nor Esca’s good mood returned; only Soude trotted around carefreely, sniffing a tree here and a bush there, chasing little birds. When they were nearing the villa, Esca caught Aquila looking at him.

“It occurred to me yesterday,” Aquila began hesitantly. “I wish you would call me Marcus.”

Esca considered him for a moment.

“If you wish so, Marcus,” he said eventually.

He saw the shadow of disappointment in Aquila’s eye, and quickly turned his eyes away, spurring his horse to go faster.

_I cannot be what you want me to be, Marcus_ , he thought to himself. _I am a slave and a Briton. I cannot be your friend._


	5. The Practice Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you kept your eyes open, you will notice that there are 13 chapters now, so yes, the fic did in fact get longer. That's a good thing, I presume?

After the hunting trip, Marcus’ behaviour changed, and became more withdrawn than he had before. He did not treat Esca unfairly, but where he had Esca’s presence before when he tolerated no one else, he now kept his distance and sent Esca away whenever Esca’s presence was not immediately required. Some days, Esca saw much more of his uncle than of Marcus himself.

At first, Esca was glad of it. Seeing Marcus only made him feel what he hesitated to call regret, and it was a feeling he was not willing to examine any closer.

Still, he could not let things continue this way for all too long. Not when Stephanos had started to send him judgemental looks, silently demanding Esca to explain what he had done, and to fix it promptly. So when he felt that Marcus had avoided him for long enough, he asked for Stephanos’ help, and prepared some training weapons that Stephanos provided reluctantly. Then he went to Marcus’ room, where Marcus sat once again poring over a scroll, and challenged Marcus to a practice fight.

“I do not wish to fight,” Marcus said with all the weariness of an old man. “I told you, I am a soldier no longer.”

“You said you could still hold your own against a man,” Esca replied, holding out one of the swords for him to take. “So prove it.”

Marcus, Esca knew very well, was unable to resist the challenge for very long. He was no soldier of Rome any more and Esca was glad of it, but he did still have the spirit of a warrior. When Esca dropped the sword onto Marcus’ scroll and went outside, Marcus followed him, all the way to a flat area where they were hidden from any prying eyes.

After a few hesitant and half-hearted attempts, Marcus began fighting Esca in earnest.

He was an excellent fighter, Esca learned quickly, used to the Roman weaponry they were using and much stronger than Esca. But both of them hadn’t been training as of late, and it showed. Marcus also sorely neglected his left hand, as if not trusting its movements at all, and left his guard wide open. Esca, quicker and more nimble than Marcus, exploited this weakness.

“Stop that,” Marcus commanded from where he had fallen, irritated that Esca had beaten him for the fifth time already with the same trick.

“No one will show you mercy in a fight,” Esca reminded him coolly. “Either you learn to guard yourself properly, or you die the first time you have to fight in earnest.”

“I am not-”

“-a soldier any more, yes, I understood that the first time you told me,” Esca finished for Marcus, and did not hesitate to underline it with a roll of his eyes. “Do only soldiers get into fights in Rome? Even our women can handle a weapon if need arises. They hold your ground better than you do, in any case.”

Marcus’ mouth snapped shut, and the familiar stubborn set of his jaw appeared. Esca did not smile about the foolishness of Romans and their odd ideas of honour and humiliation. Marcus did not understand, and it was not so bad that Esca could incite him so easily to do to his bidding.

When Marcus won the next round, Esca could not quite bring himself to mind his loss.

* * *

Marcus, Esca noticed, was just as prone to dark moods as he had been before the practice fight, but he had stopped avoiding Esca quite so often. He did not make Esca accompany him on his hunting trips again, however. Sometimes, Esca could see him hesitate, as if he contemplated asking Esca along and not daring to before he spurred his horse on and went out on his own. But not once did he ask again.

Esca tried not to think about how beautifully the sunlight would be shining through the leaves of the trees at this time of the year, and tried not to remember the pounding of his heart when he pursued game, spear in one hand and the reins of his horse in the other.

He tried not to think about what he now understood had been happiness on Marcus’ face.

“Do you not miss your family, Spoude?” Esca asked the wolf-dog as he was tending to the horses one morning.

Spoude rolled around in the hay happily and did not answer. Perhaps she had been too young when she had been separated from them to remember? Marcus had never told him how she had come to be with him.

“I wonder if it would be easier if I did not remember,” Esca said while he brushed the mane of the beautiful black horse that belonged to Marcus. “I- I don’t think I can forget, Spoude. It is not in my heart to forgive.”

“You are speaking British with the dog?” someone asked, and Esca startled. Sagitta, Marcus’ horse that Uncle Aquila liked to jokingly call “full of spirit” (feisty might be a better word), shied at Esca’s sudden movement and Esca quickly placed a calming hand on his side. He looked past the horse and saw Marcus standing there, watching him with what seemed to be bashfulness.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to intrude,” Marcus said. “Uncle wants me to run an errand, and I wanted to get Sagitta to ride to Calleva.”

“The horse will be ready soon,” Esca answered, a little more coolly than he would have usually, but he was embarrassed that someone had caught him speaking in British — Marcus, no less. He had never spoken British in front of any of his owners, and it felt as if someone had intruded in on a part of Esca that he had always kept for himself ever since he had come under Roman rule.

Thankfully, Marcus did not press any further. He nodded wordlessly and went over to Spoude, who greeted him enthusiastically. Esca turned away to carefully prepare the horse and bridle it, but he watched Marcus out of the corner of his eyes while doing so. Marcus was whispering to Spoude, who licked his face with affection, caring less about the words than about the presence of her beloved master.

Esca suddenly felt a little glad that she would never be able to share his secrets.

Once Sagitta was saddled and ready, Esca led the horse out of the stable. Marcus followed him and sat up. Esca did not miss that he was, as usual, favouring his right hand, not putting any weight on his left as he pulled himself up into the saddle, but he did not say anything.

Marcus, on the other hand, turned in the saddle to look down at Esca. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I-” He paused and shook his head. “No, never mind. Tell Uncle I will be back by sunset.”

“I will,” Esca said.

Marcus spurred his horse, which eagerly sprang into action, and before long, both horse and rider were out of sight.

“I wished he would finally say what has been on his tongue lately,” Esca said with a sigh, turning back towards the stable and the horses that were still waiting for their daily care.

Spoude only whined, confused that her master had taken his horse with him but not her, for once.


	6. The Gift

Marcus returned only after the sun had already set. Sassticca was not pleased about the latecomer and complained bitterly that the food she had prepared for him had already gone bad.

But an apologetic smile from Marcus turned her loud complaining into a quiet grumbling very quickly, and she brought him his meal without further delay. It still smelled very appetising even to Esca, who had already eaten together with the slaves earlier on. Esca knew well that Sassticca was more than happy that Marcus was willing to eat, for once, and would have not been above preparing an entirely new meal if the food had truly gotten bad. It seemed to him, rather, as if this was her strange way of showing that she cared.

After Marcus had finished his meal, he went to discuss the errand he had run for his uncle, and Esca went ahead to prepare for the night. Marcus had looked tired and a little hassled ever since he returned, as he often did when he had spent time around other people.

It was rather odd, Esca thought. Marcus had been a Roman soldier, and he had taken pride in his rank, and his duty. It would not pain him so otherwise, his arm and the loss of his use to the Roman army. And yet, it seemed to Esca as if Marcus did not particularly like his fellow Romans. He liked his uncle well enough, humouring him with games and conversations even when Esca could see he had little interest in the topic. But even then, Marcus kept his distance, drawing a fine line that could not be crossed.

It was even more so with the visitors and townsfolk that Esca sometimes saw him interact with. Marcus was reserved, almost cool, and he rarely smiled and never jested. He was, in many ways, severe.

Marcus also was, in many ways, a mystery to Esca.

Esca had finished his duties by the time Marcus returned from his uncle’s office, and he had expected that Marcus would head to bed directly, as he was wont to do when he had spent much time around other people. Instead, Marcus took his time taking off his clothes and preparing for sleep.

“Esca,” Marcus finally spoke up, fiddling with a scroll Esca knew he was not planning to read.

“Yes?” Esca asked. He swallowed down the _domine_ already lying on his tongue. It was a word that usually made Marcus recoil as quickly as a snail into its house when threatened. But Esca wanted to hear what foolish thing had taken a hold of Marcus’ mind, this time.

“Esca,” Marcus repeated. “You are not from here, are you? You do not seem to be one of the Atrebates that live around here. And I have only served in Isca Dumnoniorum, where the Dumnonii live. You are not Dumnonii, either. What other tribes are there?”

Esca remained silent, biting his lips.

_Oh, Marcus_ , he thought. _You are a cruel man._

“I am of the Brigantes,” Esca eventually answered. “They lived in the North, around Isurium. The…” He swallowed. “The markings on my arm will tell you that.”

Marcus’ eyes wandered towards the blue markings on Esca’s arm. “They are… given to you by your people?” he asked.

“Yes,” Esca said. But he did not speak about their meaning, about the stories that were hidden in the patterns. That, no one that was not from his tribe had a right to know. Least of all a Roman, who knew nothing about their gods and their heroes. These were the tales of his people, and they were not intended for the ears of others.

Marcus considered the markings on Esca’s arm again with a curious glance, but he did not ask. Perhaps, to a Roman’s eyes, they seemed to not make much sense at all, if any. To Esca, it was his own history, the memories of his family, of those who had given him these markings as a sign of honour.

“Are your people skilled craftsmen?” Marcus asked instead.

Esca did not see what Marcus was trying to achieve with these questions, and he bristled. “The Brigantes are excellent craftsmen. We also breed good horses, and our warriors are fearsome and as steady as the blades in their hands.”

“I did mean no insult,” Marcus said in a placating tone, finally laying down the scroll he had not been wanting to read. “I am sure what you said is true. I thank you for telling me. Let us sleep now.”

Esca felt treated like an indignant child that must be soothed with careful words, but he did not argue with Marcus. He turned towards his own pallet and waited for Spoude to join him, as she did every night, without speaking another word.

* * *

Marcus did not try to talk to him about the Brigantes again, but he was also keeping something from Esca. He did not know what it was that Marcus was keeping from him, but Esca did not care to know.

It was none of Esca’s business.

He did notice that Marcus went to Calleva more frequently now, but it was a good development. That Marcus had finally taken an interest in something (or perhaps someone, as Stephanos suggested with a glint in his eyes) was unusual, so everyone in the household was relieved rather than worried by the change in Marcus’ daily routine.

“A _domina_ in the house would be a nice change,” Stephanos said wistfully during breakfast one day. Sassticca, quick with her hand as always, clobbered him with one of her ladles.

“But Sassticca!” Stephanos exclaimed, raising his arms to protect himself from further assaults. “Think of the children! It would be lovely to have a few of the young master’s little ones running around!”

Sassticca did seem to be rather taken by the idea, at least for the moment, but Esca had the sudden urge to stand up, take the last of his bread, and leave the kitchen behind in a hurry.

He did not dislike children, not at all, and he was sure that Marcus would be a caring father. He would be as caring and gentle with his children as he was with Spoude, being both strict and indulgent in turns. Perhaps more indulgent than strict.

But new family members would mean changes, and these changes would affect Esca the most. Marcus knew that Esca was anything but obedient and well-behaved, and he would not permit him to be around his new wife, or worse, his little children. He was a murderer, a volatile barbarian that had never left behind his uncivilised nature like Stephanos or Sassticca, who had both been born into slavery. He was a wild wolf tied to a tenuous chain. If Marcus took a wife, Esca would be sold, there was no doubt.

Esca swallowed the bitterness of the thought and went to tend to the horses. He had sworn Marcus that he would serve him, and he would fulfill that duty until the end. How it would end — that was not Esca’s choice any longer.

* * *

One evening, when Esca was preparing for the night, Marcus came to him. He had been to Calleva during the day once more, and had returned late, eating his meal long after everyone else had finished. This time, however, he had had no business with his uncle, but came to his room directly after his meal.

“Esca,” he said, standing in the door frame, and his voice sounded uncommonly soft and hesitant.

The tone of Marcus’ voice made Esca still in his movements and dread flowed through his veins like ice water.

_Oh no_ , he found himself thinking. _Stephanos must have been right._

“I… wanted to give something to you,” Marcus said, ignorant of Esca’s great inner turmoil. He simply stood there silently, shifting from one foot to the other.

Esca suppressed his impatience, his urge to give in to his first impulse and lash out, and waited impatiently for Marcus to ready himself instead. It was for Marcus to find the words, and Esca would not make it easier for him.

Eventually, Marcus did not lift his silence, but he lifted the hand he had been holding behind his back. In his hand was a bundle wrapped in simple cloth that he held out to Esca.

Esca looked at Marcus, confused by the meaning of the sudden gesture and unsure of what he was expected to do.

“Take it,” Marcus said. Strangely enough, it sounded much like a plea.

Esca took the bundle, carefully. It was heavy and felt like something very solid. Wondering what Marcus would want to give him, he slowly unfolded the cloth.

For one moment, he stared at the thing in his hands, uncomprehending.

Marcus had given him a dagger.

It was not simply any random kind of dagger, however; the design of the blade was clearly Brigantes. I must have been made by a Brigantes craftsman, not a copy or an imitation. The weight and the grasp of it, it brought memories to the front of Esca’s mind, things that he had not let himself think about for a long time. He heard the laughter of his brothers when they were out hunting, trading playful banter while their hands were busy gutting the day’s catch. He remembered the small dagger that his father had given him when he was still a boy, the dagger he had always carried with him, until...

Esca looked up at Marcus, silently asking the question he could not voice.

“I found a man living with the Atrebates,” Marcus mumbled. “For a price, he was willing to let me commission him. I… do you like it?”

“I-” Esca did not know how to answer. “Marcus, why are you giving me a dagger?”

“You deserve it,” Marcus said quickly. “That and more. You have served me faithfully, and I wanted to get you something to show my appreciation, something you can use. You… I thought you might like it.”

“I…” Esca knew not what to say. Did he like it? A present of his people, handed to him by one of the people responsible for his suffering? Was it not a mockery of everything that he had been, a long time ago? Could he accept such a present?

“Thank you,” he eventually found himself saying. “I will treasure it.”

Marcus looked immeasurably relieved at his words, and Esca refused to feel happy that his words had such an impact on him.

“I do not wish that you treasure it because of me,” Marcus said. “But I wish that you will treasure it because of your people. I am sorry that this is all I can give to you.”

_You could give me my freedom_ , Esca thought.

“It will have to be enough,” he said out loud.

“I… sleep well, Esca,” Marcus stuttered, and he quickly turned away and went to bed.

That night, Esca lay awake in bed for a long time, with Spoude as his quietly snuffling blanket, and he turned the dagger in his hands again and again. A faint ray of moonshine glinted off the sharp blade whenever he turned it, and Esca found himself at a loss.

It was a show of trust and of respect, Esca knew, however clumsily executed on Marcus’ side. Once more, Esca found himself at a loss. What was he supposed to feel?

He tossed and turned all night, and yet he found no answer.


	7. Closer

The next morning, Marcus greeted Esca with a cautious smile as Esca brought him his food. Esca did not return the smile, but the gifted dagger had been carefully tucked into his belt every since he got up. It was message enough, Esca supposed.

Stephanos was the only one to comment on Esca’s newly acquired possession, muttering, “Yes, give the wolf a blade, so he can tear you to pieces more efficiently” to himself as he saw it. But from him, Esca had already come to expect such words, and they were spoken without heat. Sassticca did not comment, but her eyes rested meaningfully on the dagger at his side for a few moments longer than necessary before she handed Esca the food.

 _What a man I have become_ , Esca thought to himself. _The means to my freedom handed to me, and yet I remain more tightly bound than I could have ever imagined even in my darkest moments. Stephanos might call me a wolf, but if I am, I have been thoroughly declawed._

He carefully did not think about Aurelius. Aurelius had deserved everything he had gotten, and more. He did not rue the loss of such unworthy a life. And yet the blade at his side reminded him of his deed more intently than any punishment possibly could. What he had done to Aurelius, he could not do to Marcus. Never do to Marcus.

It was a simple truth, and it was a bitter one. And yet, even though Esca wanted to resent Marcus’ misplaced kindness, he found he did not have it in his heart to do so.

* * *

“It is in my mind to go hunting again,” Marcus quite suddenly announced a few mornings later.

Esca knew immediately what it was that Marcus had intended to say, but did not voice. If he had simply planned another hunting trip, he would have commanded Esca to ready his horse. This time, however, he was planning to take Esca with him on the hunt again, and he had learned that he had no right to ask. Even a question would be as good as a command. It was smart, Esca pondered, but short-sighted. Esca had no choice in the matter, regardless.

“I shall prepare Sagitta for you, then,” Esca replied blandly, getting up.

“Esca,” Marcus said, and it was a warning and a plea at once.

“I shall prepare another horse, too” Esca said, turned briskly and left the villa to do exactly that. What else should he have replied? That he was glad to go hunting, like a dog excitedly running at his master’s heel?

Sagitta, Marcus’ horse, was all too eager to get out, dancing back and forth in expectation of a good run, so that Esca had to calm her several times. For himself, Esca chose a pretty little mare that was smaller and lighter than Marcus’ horse, but agile and quick to respond; ideal for hunting. When he came back from the stables with the horses in tow, Marcus was waiting for him already, Spoude at his heels.

“It is a good day for a hunt,” he said, taking Sagitta’s reins and handing Esca bow and arrow.

“Yes,” Esca answered, for lack of anything better to say.

He sat up on his own horse and adjusted his gear, and they rode out, past the last houses and into the nearby woods.

It was strange to be out here again after such a long while, but the sounds of the forest still settled around Esca like a soft, worn blanket, calming and familiar. Like the dreams he still sometimes had, sitting by the fireside with his family on long evenings, talking and laughing and singing the songs of his childhood. How much more bitter awakening was on the mornings after!

But unlike his dreams, the familiarity of the forest was not tinted with the promise of bitterness. The earthy smell of the ground and the rotting leaves, the sounds of birds singing in the trees, the trickle of a little brook somewhere nearby. It was as close to peace as he would ever come.

They rode quietly for a while, only exchanging words when they found an animal trail or saw something equally promising. This too was familiar, and Esca knew Marcus well by now. He knew when to wait, and when to make haste. The last time they had went hunting, they had found some sort of a rhythm, and it was easy to fall back onto what Esca already knew. All too soon, they had hunted down a boar and slayed him.

Marcus’ eyes glinted in triumph, and he graced Esca with another one of his rare smiles as he pulled the spear out of the bloodied beast’s side.

“A good catch,” he said. “Sassticca will be pleased. I haven’t brought her boar for a while now. It is too dangerous on my own.”

They carefully bundled the boar up and loaded it onto Sagitta’s back to carry it home. Despite the hunt being over, Marcus seemed to be in no hurry to return quickly with their kill, and Esca agreed with him. He knew not when he was permitted to come out here the next time; returning home all too soon seemed a waste. They leisurely rode along in silence for a while, following a small stream, until they reached an open field bathed in sunshine.

“Sassticca has given me some provisions,” Marcus announced, reining Sagitta in. “Let us take a rest here.”

They sat down and unpacked Sassticca’s generously supplied food, and Esca could not help but delight in the taste of it as he sat in the middle of the field, a gentle breeze stroking his cheeks. It had been a long time to feel this kind of leisure.

Marcus silently chewed on his bread for a while before he cleared his throat.

“It’s nice to come here with company from time to time,” he spoke haltingly, as if choosing his words carefully.

Esca was quiet for a moment, considering his words. Too many things remained unspoken between them, most of all Marcus’ taciturn nature as far as any personal relationships were concerned.

“You never bring any friends along with you,” he eventually chose to say.

 _You don’t seem to have any friends_ , he did not add.

“I don’t make good company for most people,” Marcus answered, directing his eyes down towards the grass instead of looking at Esca. “And I am still not used to the civilian life.”

“Marcus,” Esca said carefully, wondering to himself if this was the time Marcus would finally choose to punish him for his insolence. “You will never be a soldier again. It is in your own interest to find friends, and to get used to this life.”

Again, Marcus refused to look at Esca, staring at the ground mulishly. He ripped a few blades of grass from the ground before crumpling them and throwing them away, an automatic movement that spoke all too clearly of his emotions. His jaw worked and tensed, but he did not snap.  

“You are company enough for me,” he eventually settled on saying.

And at that, something inside Esca moved. It was an emotion so wholly uncharacteristic of him, he found himself doing what he had avoided so studiously until now: He reached out and grasped Marcus’ arm, touching him out of his own volition for the very first time.

“Marcus,” he spoke. “Marcus, look at me.”

And with the reluctance of one who was used to command, but not be commanded, Marcus did what he was told.

“Marcus,” Esca said again, looking deep into his eyes, “I cannot be your friend.”

“I know,” Marcus spoke, and Esca saw that there was a deep pain in his eyes. “Esca, I know. But allow me this little reprieve. I beg of you.”

And with these words, he took Esca’s hand and held it; carefully, gently, as if it meant anything.

Esca remained silent and did not tell Marcus how cruel he was, to place this burden on Esca, too. Marcus was gentle, but oh, he was cruel too. Only he did not realise how cruel he was, how he made Esca suffer all the more. It was bitter, that Marcus did not really understand what he did to Esca.

But Esca could not tell him. He could not speak. Instead, he watched as Spoude rolled in the grass happily, and the clouds slowly drifted by in the blue sky above them, and did not let go of Marcus’ hand until the time had come when they had to pack up and return home.


	8. The Betrayal

After they had returned home, Marcus did not make mention of what had transpired between the two of them in that field again. Just as he had begged of Esca, he had been granted a short reprieve, and he did not ask for any further favours. Esca, by now familiar with Marcus’ character, had not expected him to try, but he found himself relieved anyway when Marcus truly did not. He was Roman, after all – and yet he stopped where any other Roman would have pushed on. Esca was not sure he understood Marcus and his morals. Grateful, he was nonetheless.

They spent the next few days following their usual routine, though Marcus’ frequent visits to Calleva had suddenly ceased. He had given Esca the commissioned dagger, and that had been all he had been looking for in Calleva. Stephanos seemed dissatisfied with that development, having taken to the idea of caring for an an extended family rather well. But alas, no young lady had caught Marcus’ eye, and Marcus proved resistant to the suggestion of getting introduced to a few suitable women.

If Marcus would only lighten up a little bit, Esca thought to himself, he would certainly find himself in female company more often than not. His looks certainly did not hurt his chances with anyone that had eyes in their head.

The only interruption to their routine came in the form of a long talk between Marcus and Uncle Aquila one morning, away from the prying ears of the slaves. When Marcus finally emerged from the office of his uncle, he was sullen and reticent for the rest of the day, and he would hardly spare Esca a glance, never mind a kind word.

“Is there anything I can do?” Esca asked carefully, after Marcus’ mood had become unbearable. He would never ask such a question, at any other time, but Esca was not aware of any slight on his side. It was not right of Marcus to treat him in such a way. To be treated like another piece of furniture, Esca had grown entirely unused of that.  

Marcus sent Esca an undecipherable look, but then told him no. “It is none of your concern,” he said, rudely turning back toward the scroll he had been reading without another word.

“Fine,” Esca replied, feeling incensed by the flat dismissal. “Then you won’t mind me going to the stables-”

“No,” Marcus interjected sharply, looking up and shoving the scroll in front of him away with a quick, impatient movement. “You are to stay in the house. Go and see if Sassticca needs some help.”

Esca glared at Marcus venomously – this was more of a command than Marcus had ever issued before, and this was not how their unspoken agreement worked. Marcus _never_ directly commanded him. And yet, Marcus did not even have the decency to flinch or turn his eyes away. With an angry huff, Esca turned around and stomped off to see if Sassticca needed him in the kitchen.

* * *

Esca should have known, should have been aware that tragedy would strike all too soon; that hope did not befit a slave. He only had himself to blame, he ruminated, to trust a Roman, to… to feel friendship for one of those who had destroyed everything he had loved. It was his punishment. He had desired life, and such a wish was unforgivable for a slave.

He was still feeling cross with Marcus, hiding in Sassticca’s kitchen, when visitors came and called at Uncle Aquila’s villa. Angry and bored as Esca was, forbidden from looking after the horses, Esca snuck out, sticking close to the windows, and petulantly listened in to the conversation between the two Aquilas and their guests. And yes, it was both. Marcus came to the room as soon as the guests were announced, apparently aware of their impending arrival. Stephanos would probably be angry with Esca for shirking his duties and eavesdropping like a common gossip, but then, Stephanos’ anger never translated into beatings. Esca was certainly not afraid of whatever punishment Stephanos had to dole out.

So Esca hid below the windows, and listened to the tale the guests had to tell. And as he was listening in to their talk, that started with bravery and honour and turned to something much darker quite quickly, that was the moment it became clear to him – the entire terrible, ugly truth of it.

The Eagle.

Marcus, the strange Roman that did not get along with his brethren; Marcus, the son of the very man who had carried the cursed Eagle into their lands. When Esca heard the men discuss it, it was as if he had been struck by lightning.

Marcus, too, had been a traitor all along, one of these men that sought to conquer and destroy, and nothing else. Esca had thought him as unlike any other Romans, perhaps even above them. How utterly wrong he had been. Marcus, too, was tainted by Rome and her power, her madness.

And then, as if this revelation had not been enough yet, when Marcus heard about the Eagle, he had the gall to call for Esca, sending him scrambling from below the window sill, entering the room haltingly and trying to look as if he had not just heard a nightmare come to life. Marcus commanded Esca to go with him, to travel to the North, to guide him in his search of the Eagle, so that Rome may reclaim it, and Marcus may reclaim his honour.

In front of these foolish Roman officials, he commanded Esca to bring him to the very place where Esca’s people had showed Rome that they would not tolerate their subjugation. The place that had been their tribe’s pride, before their destruction. The place where the Eagle had vanished into the impenetrable mists of the North, and had never returned from.

Marcus was a fool no more. He did not ask Esca if he would come. He demanded it.

It was more than Esca could bear, so as soon as he found himself unsupervised, he snuck out of the villa in haste and distress. He hid in the stables, clutching at Spoude’s fur while she whined at him in concern, not understanding his sudden distress.

 _Oh_ , Esca thought to himself, _it is better that you do not_.

“What a lousy dog I do make, Spoude,” he said. “If only it was so simple for me; to lay at my master’s feet and be content with it.”

Spoude licked his face, but even she did not have an answer for him.

* * *

Uncle Aquila and Stephanos both tried to convince Marcus of the sheer recklessness of his plans, but once again, Marcus refused to listen once he had made up his mind. He was set on finding the Eagle. Everything else would be made to fit by his utter stubbornness, Esca supposed. It had to, or it would be forced to fit.

Esca himself would have protested Marcus’ decisions, too, if he could have voiced his misgivings somehow. But how should he put into words the pain that was in his heart? How should he tell Marcus that this was all that he did not want, could not bear? So instead, Esca remained silent, and gripped Spoude’s soft fur all the tighter in those nights he could not sleep.

Where Esca’s flame had gone out, it was as if a fire had been lighted in Marcus’ very soul. Where he had been unsure and dithering before, he was now filled with determination, focused on only one goal: The retrieval of the Eagle. Esca was astonished at the change. Never before had Esca seen him walk around with so much purpose, making preparations and picking out the best route to the Wall.

Esca let him skitter around, and avoided him as best as he could. He often sought consolation in Spoude, who was patient with him even though she did not understand. Spoude let him cry into her fur at night, and did not complain. She only licked his face, and whined in sympathy when Esca’s distress became too great.  

* * *

One day, Esca found Marcus sitting at his desk, but he did not read or write. He was turned away from the desk, Spoude sitting between his legs, her snout on his thigh as he gently stroked her behind her ears. He did not stop when Esca entered the room, but also did not look up.

Esca watched the two of them for a moment. Truly, they loved each other, that a blind man could see.

“Will you take her with you?” he eventually asked. It was a justified question. Spoude, Esca had learned by now, only left Marcus’ side rarely and grudgingly. The only exemption seemed to be when Marcus left her with Esca, but that was, as Esca reasoned, because he and Spoude had come to an understanding. They knew each other.

“No,” Marcus answered after a few moments of silence, but the answer weighed heavily. Esca watched as Marcus lightly stroked Spoude’s nose. Spoude huffed and snuffled, but seemed content to remain where she was.

“It is too far,” Marcus eventually continued. “We know not what to expect. She will do better here, guarding the house.”

 _But she will suffer to be apart from you_.

The thought entered Esca’s mind unbidden, and he shook his head to chase it away.

In the North, Esca would be Marcus’ hunting dog. It was only unfortunate that Esca was really a wolf, and would not lead the hunter to the den of his own pack.


	9. Lies

Spoude was visibly upset the day that they departed, and she repeatedly tried to follow Esca and Marcus around, getting underfoot and disturbing their preparations, sensing that something was not right. In the end, Marcus had to tie her down, so she would stay out of the way. After, however, they were forced to suffer inconsolable howling. To Esca, it sounded as if the dog was being brutally tortured, and he cringed whenever Spoude started again.

Esca quietly agreed with Spoude’s distress. He felt a strange urge to join in to the howling, and air his grievances in the same way.

“Marcus,” his uncle said, once the horses had been saddled and their luggage prepared, “are you truly sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Marcus answered, and to Esca’s quiet dismay, there truly was no doubt or hesitation in his voice.

“Then I will pray for your safe return,” his uncle said, and they said their good-byes. Then, they mounted their horses. Marcus had not taken Sagitta with her, and Esca not the mare he usually rode. Instead they had chosen smaller ones, more suitable for the travels they had in front of them, and less conspicuous once they left Roman territory.

Spoude’s whining could still be heard from inside the villa as they rode away. Esca had hugged her for a long time, and he had also seen Marcus whisper something in her ear, but she had remained distressed. What a terrible omen it was to depart to, but then, the fact that they did depart on this journey at all was a terrible thing. There was simply no way in which it could end well, and Spoude, in her animal wisdom, felt that, too.

 _Forgive me, Spoude_ , Esca thought as he spurred his horse. _For whatever it is I will do._

* * *

The first few days of the journey were comfortable, if one detracted Esca’s mounting apprehension. They were still in Roman territory, mainly travelling on paved roads and with enough inns on the road so they did not have to consider sleeping under the shelter of the trees just yet. They made good progress, although they did not hurry, despite Marcus’ urgency to go forward. But he had waited for a sign of the Eagle for so long that a little more time hardly made a difference.

Esca especially was not inclined towards haste. He feared all that awaited him beyond the wall, feared his own memories, the wilderness, and most of all, his feelings towards Marcus. Once they were beyond the borders of Rome, Esca would be free. Was Marcus aware of that, that the laws of Rome did not reach beyond the wall? Did he really trust Esca this much, that Esca would remain loyal beyond the Wall? Had he already forgotten what happened to Aurelius? There was no way Esca could ask.

Marcus was not at all inclined towards conversation during the ride. Of course, he was never a very talkative man, and Esca himself was prone to stubborn silences more often than not. But now, it seemed that Marcus had somehow retreated into his own mind, and often seemed to forget Esca’s presence.

Esca could hardly blame him, for he himself often got lost in his own thoughts, mulling over his situation again and again, struggling in vain with the task that lay ahead of them. He could do nothing but try and delay the inevitable, Esca feared. He owed his life to Marcus. But Marcus was his enemy, and the enemy of his people. To allow him on ground where no Roman should ever step again…

No matter what happened beyond the wall, Esca was caught in a dilemma. He was cursed to be a traitor either way; either to his people or to the man he owed a debt of honour to. And oh, he resented it.

* * *

On the last night before they would cross the wall, in what was to be the last inn for quite a while, Marcus was not sleeping. He turned restlessly in his bed, shifting again and again, but no comfortable position was to be found that would lure him to sleep. Esca too found he was unable to sleep, anxiety climbing his spine with spidery legs.

“I am glad that you are here,” Marcus suddenly spoke in the dark.

Esca was surprised; both at the sudden breach of silence as well as the non-sequitur.

“And why is that?” he eventually asked, when it became clear that Marcus was not planning to add more to his speech.

“Placidus has been hounding me,” Marcus said, and he sounded regretful, even though Esca was unable to see his face. “To grant life to a slave who has killed his master, it is something that is simply not done. If it was Rome, not only you, but the entire household would be killed as a punishment.”

Esca was silent, eyes open but unseeing in the darkness.

“He wants to see you punished for the crime you committed,” Marcus continued. He shifted slightly on the bed. “And I find I cannot permit that. So I am glad you are here, out of the reach of his hand.”

Again, Esca was at a loss of words. He did not know what Marcus intended to say. Did Marcus want his thanks? Esca had been prepared to die. He had not feared death, but decided to welcome it, whatever form it might take. He simply had the misfortune of meeting Marcus that fateful morning; his entire plans brought to naught by him. Marcus may have earned Esca’s service, but not his gratitude.

“You should live, Esca,” Marcus said. “I hope you know that.”

Esca opened his mouth. The words only came out eventually, hesitantly. “I am a slave, Marcus. I have no life.”

And with that, he turned his back to Marcus and fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Esca lied to Marcus, and Marcus lied to everyone else. Beyond the wall, Marcus’ true identity was a death sentence, so he had to pretend that he was anything but what he really was. Truth be told, Marcus was a terrible actor, and Esca was surprised to find that people believed him to be anything but a Roman soldier. But then, they hardly had reason to suspect that a Roman soldier would sneak around in their lands, only accompanied by one of their own. It was not how Romans did things.

The lies were stacking up one on top of the other, each day they travelled further north. Soon, the time would come when Esca could not hide behind his silence any longer. He dreaded the time, and yet he wished for it, to finally bring his deception to light, to be done with it.

 _Marcus_ , Esca thought as he watched him ride through a field of heather, unaware. _When will you finally notice the wolf in your own house._

But Marcus did not notice, and Esca pretended to help Marcus on his search for the Eagle, and despite his best misdirections, they invariably headed toward the place that Marcus should never set foot into. Esca wanted to grab Marcus and shake him, but he found his arms limp and his fingers immobile.

At night, they camped wherever they could find shelter, huddled in their blankets and listening to the strange sounds of the night, waiting for dawn. During the day, they would ride slowly, taking breaks to hunt and question any inhabitants they came across. Of course, there was no need to ask them for the way, as Esca already knew the way. Every tribe knew where it was, the place where the Ninth had vanished, swallowed by forest and fog. They would not so easily forget their triumph over Rome. But Marcus did not understand the language of the local people, so he was none the wiser when Esca spoke to them about anything other than what Marcus had asked him to. He told the people many lies about their travels and where they were headed, and neither them nor Marcus were any wiser when they finally parted again. On the contrary, Marcus thanked him often for his faithful service, and it left a bitter taste in Esca’s mouth.

* * *

When it finally happened, when the truth finally came to light, it was unlike anything Esca had expected. He had assumed that at some point, Marcus would grow wary of their aimless wandering, never really arriving anywhere. He had assumed that someone would recognise Marcus as the Roman he was, and end his life here in his enemy’s land. What he had never even thought about in his wildest dreams was that they would come across another Roman that pretended to be someone else than who he was, and that once again, Rome would betray him here, far beyond her borders.

But it was a Roman, although Guern’s long hair and wild beard made him indistinguishable from any other Briton living in this Wilderness. Little was left of the proud Roman soldier that had marched into this land to conquer it. The only thing that remained was a scar and a tenuous, lingering loyalty to those he had once revered. And so it came that he exposed Esca for what he was: a liar.

Any other time, Esca might have felt sorry for the betrayal and disbelief that he saw reflected in Marcus’ eyes, but in this very moment, he felt nothing but anger. Anger towards Rome, who would forever have him in her suffocating grip, anger towards this man, whose loyalty had betrayed Esca even after he himself had turned his back to Rome, anger towards Marcus, who had led him here and who was, after all was said and done, a soldier of Rome. Anger at himself, unable to escape his fate, forever parted from his family and his tribe.

Guern spilled out the whole terrible truth: How the soldiers had marched right into the trap that the local tribes had set them, how they had buried their own conflicts to rise against Rome together. How they had decimated the entire army in the thick fog that they had been led into, and how nothing more than a handful of men had walked away from this massacre. How these men had never returned to Rome, but had buried their shame and made their home up here in the cold north, the place of their defeat. How the tribes had rejoiced and celebrated, with burning fires and a feast. How the place of Rome’s disgrace was a holy site to any tribesman. How the Brigantes had proved their courage and their valour in this battle. How any Brigantes child would know the story, even if Esca himself had been far too young then.

Rome had taken another thing from him.


	10. Freedom

The fight between them was inevitable. They were both angry, and they were frustrated by the many days of endless wandering, speechless and choked by the things that stood between them, all these things they could not voice. In the end, they turned to violence.

They had fought and wrestled before, for sport and training, but this was different. Before, their movements had something playful, a kind of secret joy when one or the other ended up on top. This time, however, they truly hit to hurt, and there was a perverse sense of satisfaction when Esca gave Marcus a bloody nose and knew it would _hurt_. He wanted it to hurt so badly. He wanted to beat Marcus to a pulp.

 _You_ , something screamed inside of him. _It is all because of you. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have never known this pain._

Marcus was taller and heavier than Esca, but Esca was faster and smarter. He also knew Marcus, and he knew all his weak points. He knew that Marcus was always hesitant to use his left arm, and mercilessly made use of that knowledge.

And there, rolling across an uneven field with Marcus, trading clumsy blows and wrestling each other, battling with their own feelings of rage and frustration, fate found him once again in the form of the Epidii. The Seal people.

Esca had known them, of course, _before_. As with many other tribes, his own people had fought with and against them many times. His father had never particularly liked them, and that sentiment had carried over to Esca. They were a hardy people, and smart as people needed to be that lived in an environment so inhospitable as theirs. But that same environment had also given them a streak of cruelty, a certain coldness that made Esca want to recoil whenever he interacted with them.

Here, however, at the end of the world as he knew it, the feeling of nostalgia, of something familiar, was welcome. And here, it was finally Esca who had the upper hand.

The Epidii recognised him too, as a son of the Brigantes, and they welcomed him accordingly. Despite the loss of his tribe, they treated him with respect. Respect that had once been natural to him, perfectly expected as a man of his position, and that no one had given him since the day his family had died.

Esca might have no particular love for the Epidii, but their treatment healed one of the many wounds that had been carved into his soul. For too long he had been a Briton slave and not the son of a Brigantes chieftain, and he had forgotten how it felt to be among his equal. Here, he was a Brigantes again.

The only fear that remained in his heart was that they would learn of the treatment he had suffered at the hands of the Romans. The countless humiliations he had been forced to suffer. The shame of having his life spared by a Roman cripple, of all things. But he knew that Marcus would not talk, nay: could not talk. Here, beyond the Wall, power lay entirely in Esca’s hands, while Marcus’ hands were bound as they dragged him back to where the Epidii had set up their huts.

Esca went with the Epidii, and he feasted with them, and he agreed to hunt with them. He let them humiliate Marcus, and send him to be with the other slaves and servants. From one moment to the other, Esca was free from the yoke of Rome, and Marcus was caught, here, in this hostile land.

* * *

Not much time passed before the secret was revealed to him: Esca had, somehow, led Marcus to the very place the Eagle had been brought to after the Ninth had been destroyed. The Epidii told him of it with undisguised pride. It had been them who took the proud Golden Eagle home, and they had decorated him, and used him in their rituals, to always remind them of their victory over Rome. The victory that had taught the Romans to fear the unknown lands beyond their walls and fortifications; and none of the tribes that had been there that fateful day would ever let the memory of it fall into oblivion.

In the case of the Brigantes, at least, their pride had been all too shortlived.

Esca had not known that it had been the Epidii who had taken the Eagle. It came as a surprise even to him, but there was also something else. As long as the Eagle had been lost, he had been happy to lead Marcus on a merry chase with no specific goal in mind. Frustrate him enough so that he would wish to return, that had been Esca’s plan. Now that the Eagle was perfectly within reach, he experienced something new – he felt conflicted.

Spending his days wandering through lands here at the coast with the Epidii warriors, he found his thoughts turning towards that useless clump of gold far too often. He still did not understand its importance; neither did he understand Marcus’ insistence that the Eagle _was_ Rome. But it was difficult to put out of his mind; this was the very object that had sent them on this journey. The object that would restore Marcus’ honour in the eyes of the Romans. A symbol of Esca’s oppression. How could Esca remain uncaring? The Eagle would be Marcus’ freedom, and Esca’s return to slavery.

How complicated an ugly piece of metal could be.

Esca tried to put it out of his mind. He was free now, here far up in the north, and he would remain that way. Perhaps, at some point, he would let Marcus leave to return to his beloved Rome, if he was secure in the knowledge that Marcus would not cause harm to him or anyone else. Both of them would not get what they desired. Esca would never again be with his people, and Marcus would not get the object that was, to him, the honour and respect of Rome.

He did not want to harm Marcus, he found. He hadn’t truly wished harm upon him for a long time. And if Esca could not give him the Eagle, then he could at least spare him his life.

His resolve was put to the test far too quickly when Liathan, the chieftain’s son, nearly killed Marcus.

Esca knew that Marcus was an attractive man, the same way he knew a good hunting dog, or a strong and beautiful horse. He had looked at Marcus before, and found that he liked what he saw. What his character sometimes lacked in amiability, his physical features more than made up, enough even for a shallow woman to find him desirable. Before the grievous injury to his arm had happened, he must have been even more impressive. And he was still young, his body still in its prime. It was no surprise, then, that others would sometimes look at him with a certain spark of desire in their eyes.

He was an attractive slave that had made the mistake of speaking to the young women of the Epidii tribe. Liathan’s reaction, when he saw Marcus conversing with the women, was swift and merciless.

Esca, with sudden, frightening clarity, realised that he could not let Marcus die. He could not let Marcus suffer this indignity any longer. Esca had had to suffer through it long enough. It was enough. There was no use in making Marcus suffer the same humiliation as himself. It would not bring his people back, and it would not make him hate Rome and all that it represented any less.

It just hurt him to see Marcus suffer. That was all it was. It would not bring him any satisfaction, any relief. As he grabbed Marcus by his hair and presented his throat to Liathan in a desperate bid for his life, he made a vow to all the gods that might still be listening to him.

He would not let Marcus suffer another punishment.

And then, of course, came the Feast of New Spears.


	11. The Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have finally reached the point in this story that made me write this fic in the first place. Cheers?

The Feast of New Spears.

Not even Esca could wholly escape the excitement that flared up among the Epidii as preparations took place. It was the night when young boys became men; an important milestone in any boy’s life, regardless of origin. The Epidii might have different traditions, but still, Esca was reminded of his own ceremony, the night when he had been one of the boys, preparing for the feast. How excited he had been as it moved closer! And how impatient he had been to prove himself a man. His brothers had teased him mercilessly – that he, the baby of the family, should finally become a man, when he was barely a cub. And Esca baring his teeth at them, insisting that he was a man. The anxiety he had felt about not knowing what was waiting for him that night, or how he was supposed to prove himself; how proud he had been once he came out on the other side! It was impossible to forget that feeling, sure in the knowledge that he now was a man in the eyes of his tribe, and anyone else.

Pain clawed at his chest as he thought of the faces of his family, so proud of him – and yet a little sad that he had grown so fast. At the time, he had only thought of proving himself, of claiming his status as a warrior of the Brigantes. Now, he found himself filled with the bitter regret of those who had learned that time had a way of slipping by unheeded, to never return again. His family was gone. His only relief was that they did not have to witness the indignity of Esca’s life as it was now.

As he was looking on, Esca noticed another person doing the same. Rónán, he saw, was jealously watching the older boys preparing for the Feast of New Spears. Rónán was the son of Liathan, and himself in line to become the chief of the Epidii after Liathan. Esca had quickly noticed, however, that Liathan and his son could not be any more different in character. Where Liathan was cold and hardened, his son had a softness that seemed antithetical to the rough lands that was their home, and his father’s tough upbringing had not yet extinguished a certain spark in him that Esca did not see in his fellow tribesmen.

Esca found himself drawn to that spark. It reminded him of the many happy and affectionate children that had lived with his own tribe; children that had never had their own ceremony, children that had never been given the chance to grow into adults.

Rónán made an unhappy face as Esca stepped closer, giving him a short glance before turning back to look at the preparations going on all around them.

“Father says I’m too young to take part in the Feast of New Spears,” he said with a pout.

“I think your father is right,” Esca answered, kneeling besides Rónán. “There is no hurry for you to grow.”

Rónán, evidently, was not satisfied by that answer.

“I can do everything they can too!”

Esca found himself smiling.

“Don’t grow up too quickly, Rónán,” he said. “It will only lead to trouble.”

Rónán looked at Esca, the indignant expression on his face replaced by doubtfulness.

“You are teasing me.”

“No, my friend,” Esca replied, sighing a little. “These are simply the regretful words of an old man.”

Rónán’s eyebrows wrinkled. “You are not old.”

“Old enough to regret growing older, anyway.”

Rónán huffed, expressing all the disbelief that a child his age, not yet aware of the fast passing of time, was able to have. He was very young, yet.

“Go get your brother,” Esca told him, instead. “The sun will set soon, and it will get cold.”

He looked at Rónán’s retreating back with regret. What a foolish thing, he thought to himself, to form an attachment to a child that he would have to leave behind, flee from. A child that would grow up to be his enemy. If Esca lived through this night, that was.

He pushed the thought away. Then he got up, and proceeded to make his own covert preparations.

* * *

It was not difficult to get his hands on the Eagle. All he had to do was wait. He watched from a distance as the warriors of the tribe commenced the ritual, drank the draughts that would make them delirious enough to let them dance with delicious abandon, and that would eventually sap all strength from their bodies, letting them fall asleep one after the other.

If there was ever a chance to recover the Eagle, this was it.

And all he had to do was to convince Marcus to follow him once again through the dark.

* * *

Esca had not properly spoken to Marcus ever since Marcus’ capture, so of course, Marcus did not know what Esca knew. He had no idea that the Eagle was so much closer than he had ever dared to hope, and he had no idea that the Eagle would be brought out for the Feast of the New Spears this very night.

When Esca found him in the darkness and shook him awake, he was terribly confused.

He looked at Esca with a distrust in his eyes that had never been apparent before. Esca had killed a man, and Marcus had trusted him enough to gift him the same weapon that he had used to disembowel his former master. Marcus had trusted him to be loyal. Now, however, he had suffered the consequences of his trust; his own life offered in exchange for Esca’s freedom.

Esca did not, and would not, apologise.

“This is your one chance,” he whispered into Marcus’ ear, instead. “The Eagle is here.”

Marcus perked up from his furs at the mention of the Eagle, and sought Esca’s face, disbelieving.

Esca could read Marcus’ thoughts easily from his expression – was this another trap? Was it a cruel plan to humiliate Marcus even further? To make him hope and then destroy that hope with a wicked grin, as all fell apart?

Esca could not blame him. He would, after all, be the same. But he could not feel guilty for it. It had been Marcus’ own fault to put his trust in a disobedient slave who served his master only grudgingly. He should have gotten himself someone like Stephanos instead, not someone like Esca.

But Esca also knew that Marcus would have never gotten a slave like Stephanos. He respected Stephanos; as the slave and companion of his uncle. But, as Sassticca had once told Esca, Marcus had never owned a slave of his own before he had decided to purchase Esca on impulse and spite alone. He had never seemed to mind Esca’s irreverence, despite Stephanos’ constant complaints, and had accepted Esca’s frequent stubborn refusals of direct orders with surprising nonchalance.

But then, it was not that surprising. After all, Marcus had never truly looked at Esca as a slave. Not caring that Marcus held Esca’s fate in his very hand, and that all that stood between Esca and death was Marcus, in all his bull-headed glory, he had looked at Esca in a different way.

Marcus had always refused to accept that Esca was only bound by the laws of Rome and of honour, and it had led him here, beyond Rome’s safe walls, his own fate laid into the hands of the one Briton he had trusted not to betray him.

And betrayed him, he had.

“Up,” Esca commanded Marcus, and poked him into his side to get him to move.

Marcus, for whatever reason, got up and followed Esca without a word of dissent. Esca did not need to know the reason. It was enough that he followed.

As they got closer to the cave where Esca had learned the Eagle would be kept, Esca made a short detour to pull their weapons out of the hidinging spot he had hidden them in earlier, along with the luggage he had stored close to their horses.

He handed Marcus the weapons that had been taken off Marcus by the Epidii and given ‘back’ to Esca that first day, when he had been bound. Esca now pressed them into his hands, wrapping Marcus’ fingers around them, and looked Marcus straight in the eye.

“When the time comes,” he said, hoping to convey all that he could without speaking the words, “do not hesitate.”

Then he turned around, and went towards the cave.

* * *

There was no use, now, to feel guilt. The druid of the Epidii was dead, and it had been them who had killed him. It was only one more act of treason at Esca’s hands; it hardly mattered now. The only thing that mattered now was Marcus, and the Eagle that was pressed tightly to his chest as they hastened towards their horses.

Marcus had finally found what he had been looking for: the Eagle of the Ninth Legion, the last remnant of his father, the honour of his family. His wish, his desire, had been fulfilled.

Esca guided them towards the place where he had hidden their luggage, when he saw a shadow move in the dark, just visible in the dim light of the few fires still lowly burning in the distance. He froze, and Marcus did, too.

The shadow moved again, and Esca saw it for what it was: Rónán.

“Esca?” Rónán asked, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Esca’s heart sank into his boots.

 _Oh no_ , he thought to himself, _why did it have to be Rónán of all people_.

“Shh,” he replied, raising a finger to his lips.

Rónán looked up at him with large eyes, but he obeyed and remained silent.

“Esca,” Marcus whispered next to him, pressing him to hurry.

But he could not kill the boy. It was… They could not let him be. If they left him to tell Liathan of what they had done— if Liathan learned that he had let them escape—

“Esca,” Marcus spoke, again. “If you don’t want to leave the boy, then take him.”

Esca looked up at Marcus sharply.

“We need to go, now,” Marcus emphasised. “Every moment of lead that we have is valuable.”

Marcus was right, of course. When the Epidii came after them, they would bestow no mercy upon them. It was a question of escape or death.

“Forgive me, Rónán,” he said, looking at Rónán’s sleepy, innocent face in pity. Then he grabbed the boy, covering his mouth to keep him silent.

A few breathless moments later, three people and two horses vanished into the darkness of the wilderness. Soon, the hunt of the Epidii would begin.

* * *

It seemed like the had not come very far at all, when they had to leave their horses behind because the horses could go on no longer. They took with them all that they could, and left all that they could spare. They moved on on foot, over grassy hills and along edges of  dark forests. And then, Esca could not remember when exactly, Marcus had handed the Eagle off to Esca, and had picked the lagging Rónán off the ground, carrying him safely in his arms as he adjusted to a faster pace.

Esca followed closely behind, a feeling of inexplainable relief loosening his shoulders, the Eagle safely wrapped in his arms.

Rónán looked terribly exhausted, but strangely, he had not complained the ordeal of their flight even once, nor tried to escape. He simply followed them. Esca’s heart hurt. It had been such a foolish choice, to take this child with him against all reason.

Esca would return to a place where he himself was nothing but a slave – what was he supposed to do there with this child? He held no power under Rome’s rule, and he could not protect Rónán. The moment they crossed the Wall, it was Marcus, not him, who would decide over Rónán’s fate.

Foolish Esca. He had let his little taste of freedom go to his head. It was too late now, though.

The weather had grown steadily worse as they moved on and on, as if the weather itself had sensed their traitorous deeds, and sought to punish them. First, the clouds had become dark and ominous, hanging low in the sky, and then the first drops had fallen. Soon, they were drenched from the steadily falling rain, and very cold, and there was little difference between night and day. Esca longed for a warming fire, but there was no fire to be had. It would draw the Epidii to their location more surely than anything else.

Instead, they hastened through the steadily increasing rain, resting for what felt but moments, before they ran again, the threat of the epidii hanging over them as the dark rain clouds did.

Exhaustion claimed Rónán as they crossed a small field of heather, and he lay limply in Marcus’ arms. But Marcus did not complain, and carried the boy across the uneven terrain, never once loosening his grip on the boy.

It seemed to Esca that they had been running for far too long already, and the Wall would not come. By now, they were running along a cliff, the rain pelting down on them so hard they could barely see where they were going. But even though the ground was slippery and uneven and they were blind, they could not stop. Their pursuers were hot on their heels, Esca knew, and soon, they would have caught up with them. The Epidii knew these lands so much better than either Esca or Marcus did, and Rónán was hardly any help in his present state.

Their chances of escaping the Epidii were not good, but Esca had sworn he would not let any further harm come to Marcus. He could not allow Rónán to be punished for Esca’s treachery. He would not give up so easily. So he forced Marcus to keep running, on and on and on, and he forced himself to keep pace, set one foot after the other, and never stop. 

Marcus’ breath came irregularly and with a wheeze, Rónán’s weight slowly draining his strength, and Esca imagined he was not faring much better. Still, he cradled the Eagle and carried on, over slippery ground and through icy rain.

There was no time for rest any longer, no time for anything but to run until their legs gave out under them.

Esca found himself regretting a great many things.

He was distracted, so he did not realise that Marcus was slipping for one moment too long. Without thinking, Esca let go of the Eagle and lunged after Marcus. He nearly missed. In the last moment, he got a hold of Marcus and wrenched him away from the gaping cliff. Rónán fell on the ground with a thump, but the ground was soft and he did not slip, so he was safe. Marcus also tumbled back and fell on his knees, away from the wall of rock. Instead, it was Esca that tumbled towards the descent.

“Esca!” Marcus shouted, getting a hold of Esca’s arm just before he fell over the cliff.

Esca slipped a little more, but Marcus’ hand on his arm tightened to a painful degree, and Esca stopped there, hanging in the air, kept from falling down the cliff by nothing but Marcus’ hand.

They both froze for a moment, suspended somewhere between earth, water, and sky, their silence only interrupted by the incessant howling of the storm.

Marcus, Esca saw, had grabbed a bushel of weeds to keep himself from falling after Esca, his other hand wrapped around Esca’s wrist.

With a strange sense of calm, Esca noticed that the arm that kept Esca from falling was Marcus’ left arm. The arm with the tremor. The shield arm that was useless to a Roman army. And it was strained and already faintly shaking.

“Marcus,” Esca said, looking up at Marcus. “Let me go. You cannot hold me.”

“Never,” Marcus said fervently.

“Marcus,” Esca said again. “Let. Me. Go.”

“No!” Marcus shouted.

Save him from stubborn, _stupid_ Romans.

“Marcus, you need to run,” Esca shouted back. “Go, before they find you!”

“I will not go without you, Esca!” Marcus insisted, and Esca could see Marcus’ weakness, his strength already fading. “I will never leave you behind.”

“Marcus,” Esca said, and he looked up into Marcus’ beautiful, serious eyes and could see the understanding slowly grow in them. “You have to go on without me. I am sorry.”

He reached for his belt with his free hand and got a hold of his dagger. The dagger that Marcus had given to him, a beautiful Brigantes design.

“I love you, Marcus. Forgive me.”

And with that, he stabbed Marcus in his arm. The arm that was weak and that caused Marcus so much pain.

_I am sorry, Marcus, my love._

Then, he was falling, and there was nothing but the cold and the darkness.


	12. Rebirth

When Esca awakened, he was disoriented. His limbs felt terribly heavy, and everything hurt so much he involuntarily sucked in a painful breath. With blurry eyes, he looked around.

“Mama,” he almost called out, but this was not the home of his childhood. In fact, the longer he looked, the more it became clear to him that he did not know where he was. It was not a place he had ever been to before, a hut built in an unfamiliar style. He struggled to sit up, to get a better view of where he was, but the bare stone walls and simple furniture held no answer for him. Why was he here? What had happened? His memory was terribly hazy.

“Esca!” came a voice from the doorway, and Esca looked up. He knew this voice, he was sure. Staring for one moment, trying to remember, he watched a young boy carry a steaming cup to his bedside.

“You are finally awake!” the boy exclaimed, holding the drink out to Esca. “We were all worried. Drink this, it will help with the pain.”

“Rónán,” Esca whispered, his voice hoarse. “What happened?”

Rónán hesitated for a moment, but then he just pressed the drink into Esca’s hands.

“Drink first,” he insisted. “The rest can come later.”

 _Where is Marcus_ , Esca wanted to ask, but his throat ached very badly. He accepted the drink from Rónán and drank eagerly. He felt terribly parched, as if he hadn’t drank in a long while.

“What happened?” he asked again, when the pain in his throat had slightly subsided. “Where are we?”

“We are with Guern’s people,” Rónán answered, taking the cup back from Esca. “You are safe.”

“I… I don’t remember,” Esca stuttered. Guern? The man that had uncovered Esca’s lies? The man that really was a Roman, and a part of the 9th Legion, at that?

“You’ve been sleeping for several days,” Rónán said. “We were so worried because you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Where is Marcus?” Esca asked. If… he hoped fervently that he had been able to escape the Epidii.

Rónán squirmed a bit in front of Esca, fidgeting with the cup still in his hands.

“Marcus has left,” he said, eventually. “He has gone back South.”

Esca did not need to ask Rónán any further questions, for he knew what that meant: Marcus had taken the Eagle with him to present it to Rome. The honour of his family would be restored, and Marcus would be a Roman hero. Esca could hardly imagine the gifts that Marcus would receive, for bringing the Eagle back to Rome. The reward would be lavish, indeed, for returning Rome to herself. And now that the Eagle was back where it belonged, Marcus had no further use of Esca. So he had left Esca behind.

Esca should have felt relief, for it meant that he was free of Marcus’ command, and not a slave any longer. But his rational thought set in far too quickly, and negated all elation. Inside the Wall, he was, in the eyes of the Roman law and the Roman people, still a slave. Beyond the Wall, the Epidii might seek revenge on him for his betrayal. Without Marcus, he was little worth in Rome, and he held no power. Most frustrating, however, was that he had no one to blame but himself.

It had been his choice, to do this, not Marcus’.

“How did we get here?” he asked Rónán, instead of the many other things that were on his mind.

Rónán, the poor child, looked conflicted.

“After you fell down,” he finally started, “Marcus reaslised he was unable to help you on his own. I was no help.” There, he fidgeted, and tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Esca. Marcus took me and went on without you. We left you there. And then we crossed Guern’s path. I think… Guern was a friend of yours? When Marcus asked, he agreed to help you. So, um, I’m not sure, but they got some other men too, and then they went back to look for you.”

“I think,” he continued, and swallowed before he spoke again, “I think they fought. Marcus would not speak of it, but he was hurt when he returned with you, and I think some of the men did not return at all. I do not know about the rest. They brought you here five days ago, and you have been asleep ever since.”

“Thank you, Rónán,” Esca rasped, and he did not voice the terrible truth he could read between Rónán’s innocent words. There was no doubt that Marcus had encountered the Epidii when he and Guern’s people had returned for Esca, and if Marcus and Esca had both escaped with their lives, it was almost certain that Liathan was dead by now. Perhaps killed by Marcus’ own hand. But Esca did not have the heart to tell that to Rónán right this moment.

He closed his eyes and mumbled that he needed a little more rest. It was not a lie, not entirely; he could barely keep his eyes open. The darkness that greeted him once he stopped resisting its pull was a terrible relief.

* * *

Guern himself came to his bedside the next time Esca woke. They spoke at length about the events that had transpired ever since they had parted ways, with Esca hurt and betrayed. Esca told Guern about their encounter with the Epidii, and the theft of the Eagle — Marcus had already spoken of it shortly, but Marcus knew little of what Esca had done when he had been confined to the slaves’ quarters.

Guern, in turn, spoke to him about Marcus’ sudden reappearance and his plea to help him save Esca. Guern, and many of the Roman soldiers that had left their past and their military service behind and instead quietly settled in these lands, had taken up their weapons once again without question and followed Marcus out into the wilderness once they had seen the Eagle. Perhaps they were Romans no more, but the debt of honour they still owed to the Eagle, and to Marcus’ father, still had to be repaid. So they had followed Marcus back to the cliff, and fought against the Epidii when they had found them first, instead of Esca.

As Esca had already guessed, Guern informed him that Liathan had not survived this second encounter with Marcus. He would have to tell Rónán, and soon, Esca knew, before the boy heard it from one of the men. It hurt him to think of it. It was Esca’s fault, after all, that the boy had lost his father, and Esca remembered the pain of losing family all too clearly to make light of it. Losing family — Esca might have not thought much of Liathan, but for Rónán’s sake, he rued his death.

After the battle with the Epidii, Guern continued, they burned their dead and brought their wounded back here, to safety. They had brought Esca with them, barely alive as they had found him, in a puddle at the bottom of the cliff he had fallen off of. For a while, he had lingered somewhere in between life and death, barely holding on. During the first night, no one was sure whether he would make it until morning, despite the best of their care. But he had slowly gained strength, regardless of his trials, and Rónán in particular had been very relieved, when Esca finally woke up again.

Marcus had stayed with them for two days, mostly until it was clear that Esca would not die, and the wound that Esca had inflicted on him had started to heal. Then he went to Guern, telling him of his plans, and extracting a promise to take good care of Esca and Rónán. Once Guern had given his assurances, he had left, moving southwards.

Esca could see him return to his uncle’s house triumphantly, welcomed back with wonder and pride, now that he had accomplished the impossible task that no one else could have achieved. And once he had presented the Eagle to Rome herself, people would be falling over each other in their haste to get to Marcus. He would be equal to his Roman peers. Nay, he would be above them.

His uncle would surely ask where Esca was, and Marcus would perhaps smile wanly and remain silent, before he would go off to finally indulge in the debauchery that all Romans were so fond of. Perhaps that had been what Marcus had been waiting for. Now, his reason to shun the company of others was gone, and he could do as he pleased.

Esca, meanwhile, remained here, in the North, so close to his ancestors’ lands that now were empty of the people he had once known, and Rónán was with him. It was not so bad, Esca thought. If this was to be his version of freedom, the reward for his many betrayals, he could hardly complain. He would accept it, and curse his fate no longer. He would forget about his time as a Roman slave. It would be as if it had never been.

“Thank you, Guern,” he said honestly, “for all that you have done for us.”

“No, Esca,” Guern replied. “It is my gratitude that you have earned. You were loyal to Marcus; more loyal, in fact, than one could ask of you, and I am relieved to see the son of the man I served thrive.”

He laid his hand on Esca’s shoulder, careful not to jostle Esca, and looked straight into his eyes.

“Thank you, Esca Mac Cunoval, son of the Brigantes. You are a good man.”

Esca’s eyes stung at the words, and he turned away in shame. But Guern understood, for he said nothing else and got up, quietly leaving Esca to his own thoughts.

Only later, he wondered why Guern would know that he once had been Cunoval’s son.

* * *

Esca healed, slowly. Once he had rested a little more, he did what he need to do, and called Rónán to his bedside. He did not feel ready to do so, but there was no excuse not to tell Rónán of his father’s fate. The longer he waited, the more terrible it would be for the boy, Esca was sure.

Rónán listened to him, and then he was quiet for a long time, sitting there with his eyes fixed to the ground. Esca felt sorry for him. They had taken him away from the Epidii without giving him a choice, and he had never even said good-bye to his father. Esca did not even know whether Liathan had known that Rónán was still alive.

“I am sorry, Rónán,” he spoke into the silence, the words heavy in his mouth. “You have been made to suffer through no fault of your own.”

Rónán shook his head and visibly steeled himself. Then he spoke words that seemed quite unlike the words of a child his age.

“No. We are warriors. We are all prepared to live and die according to the rules of our people. It was not…”

He eclipsed into silence, his small frame shaking violently.

Esca reached out and embraced him tightly.

“It is my wish for you to live a long and happy life,” he said, seriously. He wished he had better words, something that would lighten this burden on Rónán’s shoulders.

It was enough, perhaps, since this was the point when Rónán finally started to cry. He clung to Esca tightly, grasping Esca’s sweat-stained shirt, crying silently for a while. Esca stroked him, awkwardly at first, not familiar with the motion, the idea of providing comfort to another human being any longer. Rónán, however, did not seem to mind. After a while, his tears finally ran dry, and he stopped shaking so much.

“Where are you going?” he asked with a small voice.

“I don’t know yet,” Esca answered. “But wherever it may be, you are welcome to stay with me.”

Rónán clung to him even tighter, and for a while after that, he refused to leave Esca’s side even for a moment.

It was not so bad, Esca thought. If not for his own sake, then at least for Rónán’s sake, he had to heal, and build a new life far away from his past. A life far from Marcus, and these foolish feelings of his, forever buried at the bottom of a rainy cliff.


	13. A New Path

Esca did not know how to express it, but Rónán was a brave and lovely child. The death of his father had shaken him, and the experience subdued him; but it did not take very long for an entirely different side of him to emerge. Once he had become more familiar with his new surroundings and the sudden changes to his life, he got enthused about the promise of a different future. He had spent his life with the Epidii, only familiar with their customs, and was curious to hear Esca speak about the life of the Brigantes, the life that Esca had once lived.

Esca had not yet decided what he would do next, but Rónán was not lacking in ideas, changing his opinion every other day. They should raise horses, like the Brigantes did! Or perhaps they should have a farm with lots of animals? No, they should travel. He’d always wanted to try travelling far by boat. He had heard the Romans had big boats, with enough room for dozens of people to find shelter at the same time! They had crossed the Sea to come to Britannia with boats, after all. The south was warmer than here? With no snow in winter? He could not imagine!

Esca would only admit it under duress, but he was enamoured with the excitement of the boy, and he indulged it more than the perhaps should. He was not the only one, however; after finding out that ‘Romans’ did not mean a tribe as ‘Epidii’ or ‘Brigantes’ did, but that Romans could come from very different places with entirely different cultures, Rónán loved listening to the tales that the former Roman soldiers among Guern’s people had to tell. Some had been born close to Rome, knowing the customs of Rome well, while others had been raised far away, with customs unfamiliar to either Romans or Britons. The majority of them had seen many different places before they came to Britannia, places unimaginable to a boy who had never even crossed the Wall, and they seemed all too ready to indulge their attentive audience whenever they could spare the time, telling Rónán of all the foreign lands that they had seen.

Rónán drank these stories in with all the enthusiasm of a person unaware of the inevitable dark sides to them; the slavery that Rome supported, the subjugation of entire peoples under the rule of Rome. Perhaps it was better that Rónán was unaware, Esca thought. Rónán had not seen the marks on Esca’s back, now long healed but still all too obvious against his pale skin. Guern had seen them, once, and seeing his conflicted expression, Esca had felt himself compelled to explain that the man who had left these marks was dead, and that Marcus had never laid a hand on him.

The words felt unreal as they left his mouth. Here he was, insisting that Marcus had been a ‘good master,’ one who treated his slaves right. He felt like a beaten wife defending her husband’s actions, and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Still, he felt it necessary to say them.

Guern, for his part, sensed that this was a topic fraught with tension. He put his hand on Esca’s shoulder, and said, “For what it is worth, here, you are a free man among equals.”

With that, he let the topic rest. Esca, for his part, was quietly grateful.

* * *

Despite Rónán’s enthusiasm, Esca found himself to be undecided. After a number of weeks, he had almost completely recovered from his fall, and soon, it would be time for him to make a decision: whether he wished to remain here, or seek another place that would become home for him and Rónán, a place to build a new and different future.

He was lost, he knew. He kept waiting for a sign, anything to guide him on the right path, but it would not come.

He would sometimes leave Rónán behind with Guern, and climb upon a nearby grassy hill on his own. He would invariably stand at the top, where the view was wide, and look out across the landscape, trying to find the place that he had once called home, a place he could not return to. And then he looked towards the south, where he knew… at this point, he would invariably clench his teeth. It was not to be. Too much had happened, and he, a former Briton slave, could not bend Rome herself to his will, to make her obey his desires. His freedom had been returned to him. That would have to be enough. Once upon a time, it had been his most fervent wish, the pain so intense to keep him awake at night. When, he wondered, had he begun to prefer the chains around his wrists?

Every time, he would turn away from the sight, the steel blue sky and the grassy hills, the things unseen in the distance, and return to Rónán’s side, vowing to make his choice soon.

And yet, he stalled, and repeated the same action again.

If only he had learned to write, he mused at some point, remembering Marcus bent over one of his scrolls before he went to bed. Then he might relieve himself of the things that burned in his chest, writing them down, and give them to someone to bring them to Marcus. That way, he could perhaps relieve himself of their weight, force Marcus to carry it. But alas, he had not learned how write. And it was foolish, anyway. He did not know how to find the words.

He helped Guern with his work, careful as not to make himself a nuisance and a leech, but he felt the pressure to make a decision mounting every day. It was not fair to Rónán too, who was so excited about the promise of new experiences, different from all that he knew when he lived with the Epidii.

Esca realised that this was perhaps how a father felt. He wanted to be able to take care of Rónán properly. And for that, he had to make a decision.

* * *

Still unsure, he resolved to discuss his options with Guern. He did not have all too many options, if he was entirely honest. He had no money, and no possessions to be traded for something else. Guern smiled at him when he said this, and went to a small chest, opening it. Returning to Esca, he handed him a purse filled with coins. When Esca looked at him without understanding, he explained that Marcus had given the purse to him, as payment for taking care of Esca as he healed.

When Esca exclaimed that the money was Guern’s then, and not his, Guern’s face grew severe.

“It was an honour, not a duty, to keep you safe,” he said shortly. “The purse is yours. Do with it whatever you will.”

Just like that, Esca’s options had improved, and one Roman, most unexpectedly, had proved their honour to him. He mulled over the money, much like a stingy, fat old Roman would, hesitant to pay his debts. Thanks to Guern’s generosity, there was no reason to delay his decision any longer.

Almost unconsciously, he found himself climbing the incline of the grassy hill so familiar to him now once more, as if the the view up there would somehow make it easier to order his jumbled emotions, and help him in finding the right solution. He stayed up there until the sun began to set, but still, no answer came to him.

He finally left the stone that he had sat upon and turned to head back, knowing that Rónán would be waiting for him eagerly, to tell him of all the new things he had learned today, but as he turned, he heard a strange sound in the distance, something like a howl or a bark, but not quite either. He stopped to listen again. The sound repeated, much closer this time, and Esca moved closer to the edge of the hill.

Further down, he could see a figure race through the grass, already half engulfed in darkness, but it seemed all to familiar. It could not be, but Esca had spent many days and nights with this particular creature. He would recognise her blindfolded.

“Spoude?” he called out, half unbelieving, and he was answered with an excited howl.

Within moments, the dog had climbed the hill, and without hesitation threw herself into Esca’s arms toppling them both to the ground. Esca found himself thoroughly licked and rubbed, Spoude’s excitement too large even for her big body.

“Spoude,” he said. “Spoude, my girl, my heart, what are you doing here? Where is your master?”

Spoude would never willingly leave her master’s side. And Marcus, Marcus would never…

“I am almost convinced that she likes you better than me,” came Marcus’ voice from up above, and Esca looked up.

There he was, seated on Sagitta, looking impossibly better than Esca remembered, large and powerful and everything that Esca had ever wished he could be.

“Esca,” Marcus said, and Esca could hear the emotion in his voice.

“Marcus,” Esca replied, his voice perhaps just as treacherous. Then, he did not know what else he should say. In his heart, he repeated the name, _Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. Marcus, you are here._

“You seem well,” Marcus observed, as he dismounted from Sagitta, pulling Spoude away to help Esca stand.

“I am well,” Esca finally said, brushing grass and dirt from his clothing. “As is Rónán.”

Marcus considered that information for a moment.

“He stayed with you, then?” he asked.

“He could hardly go back.” Here, Esca hesitated. “I think he is happier now.”

Marcus smiled an oddly lopsided smile. “That is very well, then.”

“It is.”

And once again, they lapsed into silence.

Esca remembered with sudden brilliant clarity the last words that he had said to Marcus. He had almost forgotten about it, nay, wanted to forget, that he had ever given voice to his feelings. But none of it had subsided, despite the time he had had to recover from his madness. Marcus stood in front of him, and for the first time, the pull towards him was stronger than the repulsion of all that kept them apart.

It was him that crossed that distance that he had so carefully maintained. He laid his hand on Marcus’ arm, where he remembered his dagger slicing through sensitive flesh, and he let himself feel relief that the wound seemed to have healed quickly and without complications.

“Esca,” Marcus said again, and then, Esca was engulfed in Marcus’ strong arms, pressed to his body so tightly, it seemed as if Marcus never wanted to let go of him.

“When you fell,” Marcus whispered into his hair, “I thought you were dead. I thought that this was the end. Oh, Esca.”

Esca basked in his embrace for a little while, soaking up the warmth of Marcus’ body; an indulgence he hadn’t permitted himself for a long time. For the past few years, the only object of Esca’s affections had been Spoude, and Spoude could not hug back very well.

After a while, however, he untangled himself from Marcus, and looked up at him.

“Are you here to take me back?” he asked.

Marcus fidgeted a bit, and Esca was ready to command him to speak when he finally found his words.

“Esca the slave is dead,” he said, in a complete non-sequitur. When Esca made a noise of protest, Marcus signed for him to wait. “It was my uncle’s idea. I came back on my own, so you were declared dead officially, and therefore you are no longer my slave, or anyone else’s. You are simply another Briton, free to go where you please.”

Esca looked up at Marcus, speechless. It seemed so simple when Marcus said it, just an act that was obvious and a necessary conclusion of all that had been.

And perhaps for Marcus, it was.

“I am… free?” he asked, not trusting his voice.

“Yes, Esca,” Marcus repeated. “You are free.”

He chewed on his lips, shifting, looking away, but then his gaze wandered back, as if magically drawn to Esca.

“I will not stop you to go wherever you please,” he added, in a smaller voice.

It was everything that Esca wanted, and yet, not at all.

He dropped his head onto Marcus’ shoulder and buried his face in his neck.

“You fool,” he mumbled. “You utter, bumbling fool.”

Carefully, as if trying not to spook a small, frightened animal, Marcus’ hands found their way to Esca’s waist.

“I respected you,” he said, simply. “That first time I saw you, standing over the body of Aurelius. You seemed to terribly proud, and so deeply wounded, and I respected you. And then I saw you, in these moments you were unguarded, and I loved you.”

“No,” he corrected himself. “I _love_ you.”

Esca made a noise that sounded not unlike the wounded animal Marcus thought him to be, enough so that Spoude joined in in his distress, and Marcus seemed terribly confused, and apprehensive of what he had done. It was not particularly amusing, but then, it also was, and Esca broke out into laughter. He laughed as he had not in years.

And then he cried.

* * *

Rónán was visibly torn between different emotions when Esca and Marcus returned together, after darkness had long descended over the land. He was curious, since he had heard many stories from the former Roman soldiers, and now longed to hear what Marcus had to tell. He was also shy, because Marcus was a Roman, much younger than all the other men, and the person that had carried him during most of their flight.

His anxieties were quickly allayed by a different source, however; Spoude. He was fascinated by her, and she seemed to be equally taken in by the tiny human that petted her reverently.

Later, however, when they were about to retreat for the night, Rónán looked at Marcus and asked, anxiously, “Are you here to take Esca with you?”

Marcus looked surprised for a moment.

“No,” he answered slowly, his eyes wandering over to Esca. “I was hoping we could go together.”

“Where to?” Rónán asked.

“Wherever we’d like to go,” Marcus replied.

Rónán looked as if he did not quite understand, but he seemed quite willing to go along with it regardless.

“And if you do not,” Marcus added more quietly, speaking only to Esca. “At least you should take half of the reward I received for the return of the Eagle.”

Esca was terribly tongue-tied, frozen in place and unable to respond.

“It is time for you to rest,” he said eventually, seeing Rónán doze off while clinging to Spoude’s fur, as well as Marcus’ frequent blinking, as if he had a more difficult time than usual to keep his eyes open.

A shadow of disappointment crossed Marcus’ face, but he did not disagree with the suggestion. With the help of Esca’s gentle prodding, Rónán finally let go of Spoude and withdrew to his bedroll.

Esca made space so that there was enough room for Marcus, too, watching him silently as he spread out his own bedroll.

As he laid down, Spoude joined them, easily finding her customary spot right across Esca’s body, snuffling and shifting until she had found the right spot. Esca relished in the familiarity of her weight, and now that his wounds had completely healed, he welcomed it more than before, back in the villa in Calleva.

In the dark, he could see Marcus watching them. He was much closer than he had ever been when they had shared Marcus’ room; close enough that Esca could touch, if he extended his arm.

“I knew she liked you better than me,” Marcus whispered. Then, after a moment of silence, he added, “I confess, I am somewhat envious.”

Esca smiled lightly, even though Marcus could hardly have been able to see it.

“There is no need,” he said. He reached out, finding Marcus’ arm, until Marcus shifted and laid his own hand into Esca’s. “Weren’t you willing to share everything with me?”

Marcus was silent for a moment.

“It would be my honour,” he said, and squeezed Esca’s hand lightly.

They fell asleep like that, hands joined in the dark.

And for the first time, Esca dreamt not of the past, but of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already know y'all are going to hate me, haha. 
> 
> I also couldn't resist the image of Marcus trying to Jedi mind-trick the Roman administratives like 'Yes, this is my frined and his name is Esca. He just happens to have the same name as my former slave, and also looks remarkably like my former slave, but he is NOT my former slave. Completely different person. See? Friend. Not Slave.' My humour is awful, sorry about that.

**Author's Note:**

> The Eagle soundtrack was heavily abused in the making of this fic.


End file.
